


What Counts as a Rescue

by didoandis



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fever, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I'm British so's my spelling, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Not Beta Read, Spells & Enchantments, Truth Serum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27280933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didoandis/pseuds/didoandis
Summary: Geralt unties Roach from the post, and is about to leave when there’s the sound of an altercation behind him. He turns to see two guards dragging a third man between them. The man is wearing brightly coloured clothes and struggling, not seriously, more like he’s aware that in such circumstances struggling is expected. The guards approach Geralt and drop their charge to his knees in front of him.“Ow,” the prisoner says. Geralt recognises the bard from the tavern: a little more dishevelled, his face not improved by two black eyes and a split lip.“This one claims he’s a friend of yours,” one of the guards says. “Caught him sniffing around the treasury but he says he knows you. Says you’ll vouch for him.”Geralt looks down at the bard, who winks at him, then winces.How the witcher got his bard; or, the history of a relationship in ten rescues.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 161
Kudos: 917





	1. Brugge

**Author's Note:**

> I have merrily messed around with timelines, canon, minor characters and backstory in the service of getting in as many tropes as I could manage.

For obvious reasons, Geralt no longer crosses Cintra’s borders. He doesn’t imagine he’ll be welcome. 

Even Brugge is closer than he’d like, but the contract is too good to pass up. It doesn’t take much skill to clear a city’s sewers of the various beasts that nest there – just potions, bombs and patience – but citydwellers get accustomed to civilisation, and are both more willing and better able to pay for the privilege to walk their streets freely. So he’ll spend a few days, collect a decent amount of coin, and then head north for the rest of the spring. 

The work is as easy as he hoped, if a little messier. When he steps into the tavern he’s been staying in, he isn’t a pretty picture, covered head to toe in sewage, blood, and… other things. 

There’s a bard playing in a corner of the room, and his song falters and dies as the chatter stops and everyone turns to start at Geralt. It’s the smell, probably. He sighs. Usually what happens at this point is that the innkeeper swears and throws him out, and everyone else just throws things. He’s really not in the mood. It’s been a long day. 

“Behold,” the bard cries out, “the, uh, scourge of the sewers, protector of the people, saviour of the city!” He plays a chord, strong and resonant. His voice is rich and pleasant enough, better than most travelling bards Geralt encounters, though he can’t be more than mid-twenties. “A round of applause for Geralt of Rivia!”

There is, remarkably, a smattering of clapping, though the ones who take part lower their hands almost immediately. Geralt stares at the bard, incredulous. The bard winks back at him. 

“Now where were we,” the bard says, and goes back to the song he was playing when Geralt came in, the latest Oxenfurt autumn festival hit which Geralt has been hearing all winter. He’s not bad, except for how Geralt is sick of the sound of it. 

Still. No one is looking at him, and the innkeeper hasn’t threatened to evict him. His medallion is quiescent, so there’s no magic at work, just charisma, he supposes. Geralt doesn’t really trust charisma. 

He nods at the innkeeper and orders a bath and squelches his way upstairs. 

When he comes back down, the bard is gone and Mousesack is waiting for him. 

“Fuck,” Geralt says. 

“Hello to you too,” Mousesack says. “We got word of a witcher skulking around in the Brugge sewers so I thought I’d come and see if it was you.” 

Mousesack looks laidback and cheerful. It’s a good disguise, but Geralt knows him well enough to see the tension around his eyes. He sits down opposite. “I suppose Calenthe doesn’t know you’re here.” 

“The queen and I don’t have the same opinions on some things,” Mousesack says. 

“And one of those things is me.” 

Mousesack inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Cirilla is six years old, Geralt. She’s a bright young thing. Strong and thoughtful. She’ll make a great ruler one day. You should meet her.” 

“Calenthe would have me skinned the second I set foot in her city,” Geralt points out. “And the princess is hardly going to be a great ruler if I claim her.” 

“That may not happen whatever you do,” Mousesack says. The tension around his eyes increases. “Nilfgaard’s rising.”

“Nilfgaard tries to rise every few decades,” Geralt says. “You and I have lived through it time and again. That’s nothing new.” 

“I think it might be, this time.”

“You’re getting paranoid in your old age.” Geralt turns to signal the barmaid for a pint, then grudgingly makes it two when Mousesack raises his eyebrows at him. 

“You know my thoughts on destiny,” the druid says, lifting his ale in a toast. 

“Yes, you think it’s real.” Geralt shakes his head, drinks. He likes Mousesack, as much as he likes anyone, but he wishes he hadn’t been tempted to Brugge by the contract. He knows what’s coming next; he’s heard the lecture before, in the ballroom of the palace at Cintra, in the tavern the next morning, all the way to the city walls, with Mousesack entreating him to stay and soldiers watching him coldly, making sure he left. 

“I think destiny fucks people over who don’t respect it,” Mousesack says bluntly. “And you’re a good man, Geralt. I don’t want to see you get fucked over and I truly don’t want to see Ciri caught up in your mess.” 

“Look,” Geralt growls. “The girl is safe. Calenthe will make sure of that. I have nothing to offer her.”

Mousesack leans back in his chair thoughtfully, and Geralt turns away under his scrutiny. “You’re so logical, witcher. I could almost take you seriously.”

Geralt sighs, and drinks his beer. 

“What if she’s not safe?” Mousesack asks. “Say I believe your excuses, that you’re staying clear of the princess for her own good, rather than because you’re terrified of being bound to anyone – what happens if there comes a day when she’d be safer with you?”

“Then I’d come for her,” Geralt snaps, only realising what he’s said after he’s said it. Mousesack looks smug, damn him. “But it won’t happen,” he finishes. “She has all of Cintra and Skellige to protect her; she doesn’t need me.”

“You don’t like being needed, do you,” Mousesack says, laughing at whatever face Geralt makes at that. “All right, my friend. I’ve made my point, I’ll end it there. Let’s get drunk and nostalgic, like the old fuckers we are.” 

Mousesack is a good drinking partner at least. When Geralt wakes the next morning, he’s stiff and slow, headache lingering at his temples. He doesn’t have enough potions left to indulge in taking one – he’ll need to take some time to replenish his stocks in the next few weeks. Meantime, he has business to attend to. 

The captain of the guard in Brugge is a quiet man, organised and focussed. He prods at the proofs of death Geralt brings him with the tip of a dagger, writes out a receipt and hands over the coin. Geralt leaves his office with the pleasant knowledge of a job well done and valued fairly, and heads out into the courtyard of the guardhouse. Mousesack is there, standing by Roach. 

“I thought I recognised this fine animal,” he tells Geralt, wincing a little in the light. 

“How’s the head?”

“I’m too old to keep up with you,” Mousesack says ruefully. “A good night, though. I’ll walk out with you.” He holds his hands up. “No tricks, I promise.” 

“Hmmm.” Geralt puts the coin into a saddlebag, unties Roach from the post, and is about to leave when there’s the sound of an altercation behind him. He turns to see two guards dragging a third man between them. The man is wearing brightly coloured clothes and struggling, not seriously, more like he’s aware that in such circumstances struggling is expected. The guards approach Geralt and drop their charge to his knees in front of him. 

“Ow,” the prisoner says. Geralt recognises the bard from the tavern: a little more dishevelled, his face not improved by two black eyes and a split lip. Mousesack comes up to stand by Geralt, intrigued and entertained, judging by his expression. 

“Friend of yours, Geralt?” Mousesack asks. 

“That’s what he claims,” one of the guards says. “Caught him sniffing around the treasury but he says he knows you. Says you’ll vouch for him.” 

Geralt looks down at the bard, who winks at him, then winces. He looks even younger close up, boyish and unlined, his eyes laughing despite the bruising, seemingly untroubled at the situation he’s found himself in. “Come on, Geralt,” he says. “Tell the nice men with the pointy weapons that I was just looking for you and not doing anything suspicious and then we can be on our way.” 

It’s bold, anyway. Geralt realises he’s oddly amused. There’s not many people who’d see a witcher and decide that meant salvation, or who’d claim fellowship with one either. And he supposes he owes the man for diffusing the tension in the tavern the night before. 

“That’s right,” he says blandly. “He’s with me.” 

“Can I have my lute back now?” the bard asks, grinning innocently at the guard on his left. 

Ten minutes later, Geralt is leading Roach through the gates of the city, Mousesack on one side, the bard limping cheerfully behind them cradling his lute and his pack. 

“What were you actually doing at the treasury?” Mousesack asks after a while. 

“Not what,” the bard says. “Who.” He waits for a further question, and when it doesn’t come carries on explaining regardless. “I was _doing_ the treasurer’s delightful wife and the treasurer took exception to it. That was black eye number one. So I fled out the window, as you do, and unfortunately the way out led past the treasury itself and the guards weren’t amused to see a man running past it who shouldn’t have been there at all. Black eye number two and a punch in the mouth, which I consider unnecessary. They were just on their way to take me to the captain when I saw you across the courtyard and thought, there’s a man who might take pity on a lovelorn bard. And you did! For which I thank you kindly and will rhapsodize you in song. The witcher who saved the bard’s arse, maybe.” 

“No,” Geralt says. 

“Negative feedback,” the bard sighs. “It’s the bane of my existence, honestly. Especially heartbreaking coming from someone with such a smell of heroics and destiny about him.” 

Mousesack chokes back a laugh. “Heroics and destiny, you see, Geralt? Out of the mouth of babes…” 

“More like idiots,” Geralt mutters. He tells the bard, “it’s onion.” 

“Can’t work with that,” the bard retorts. “Very hard to rhyme, onion.” 

Geralt pulls Roach to a stop. They’re out of the city walls now. To the west lies Cintra, and Mousesack’s route home. Geralt has been planning to head north. “You can go south or east,” he tells the bard, “as long as you _go away_.” 

The man looks surprisingly crestfallen. “But you saved my life!” he says. “At the very least I owe you a song in return for the rescue.” 

“I saved you a beating,” Geralt counters. “And I don’t want a song.” He turns to Mousesack, who is clearly enjoying all this immensely. “Good to see you. Won’t happen again.” 

Mousesack rolls his eyes. “Young man,” he says to the bard, “you seem like someone with a taste for adventure.” 

“Sure,” the bard says. “Adventure, women, coin, whatever I can get my hands on really.” 

“I think Geralt would make a perfect muse for an ambitious musician,” Mousesack says. He and the bard appraise Geralt for a moment: his dusty stained armour, his tangled hair, his glare. 

“Mousesack—” Geralt starts, but is arrested when the druid waves a casual hand, muttering under his breath. 

The uneasy slick sensation of magic settles on his skin and slides away. The bard blinks and sways. “That was… kind of gross, actually, what was it?”

“Something very minor,” Mousesack says. He smiles at Geralt, a sharp-edged grin with no humour in it. 

“What did you do?” Geralt hisses, but Mousesack is already turning away, calling a portal into the air. He looks back over his shoulder just before he passes through. 

“Tied your travels together,” he says. “Call it practice at being needed. Don’t worry, it’ll wear off in a few months.” 

Geralt lunges at him, but stumbles into empty air as the portal closes. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” the bard asks behind him. Geralt swears. Fucking Mousesack. Fine if he wants to teach Geralt some ridiculous lesson, but it’s hardly fair to drag some random kid into it. 

“I don’t know.” 

“‘Tied your travels together’,” the bard says consideringly. “Like, we’re linked? Like fate? This is excellent. Will it make you want to fuck me, do you think?” 

“ _No_.” 

“Pity.” He shrugs when Geralt turns to glare at him, his eyes blue against the bruises surrounding them. “What? I would. Bed a witcher, that’s a great story. But, yes, fine, I can see that’s not where this is going, I’ll shut up now.” 

Geralt’s only known him for half an hour, and he already knows that’s a lie. 

He gets on Roach and starts riding, hearing the bard protest behind him, and manages to get about five miles away when it’s as if he rides straight into a wall. 

He comes to on the ground, Roach nibbling at the grass. The bard is sitting crosslegged at the side of the road, hands still on his lute, looking at him. “Funny thing,” he says. “I was walking along – well, all right, following you – when I felt this great tug, and a few miles later there you were, passed out in the dust. I guess this is a ‘where you go, there go I, or otherwise something knocks you out and waits for me to catch up’ kind of deal.” He seems blithely unconcerned about it all. 

“Fucking druids,” Geralt says. He would like nothing more than to go to Cintra and teach Mousesack a lesson of his own, but he can’t go to fucking Cintra, which means he seems to be stuck babysitting a bard until this fucking magic wears off. 

“Bit harsh,” the bard says. “I’m sure he had a good reason. Are you going to tell me what it was? Or maybe he just wanted to mess with you, and to be honest I can see why that’s tempting. Do you always look so stoic and unsmiling?” 

Geralt snarls. 

“Are those _fangs_?” the bard says, his voice high and delighted. “Do you have pointy teeth as well as pointy swords? Sweet Melitele, this is going to make such a good song. The Butcher’s Bard! I can hear it now— umf.”

His voice cuts out abruptly when Geralt wraps a hand round his throat and pulls him up, the lute creaking between them. He’s taller than Geralt expected: this close up, they’re almost eye to eye. His eyes are wide and blue and a little startled but still not scared. Why isn’t he scared? Who would greet being tied to a monster with _enthusiasm_?

“Not Butcher,” the bard gasps. “Noted. Shan’t do it again.” 

Geralt lets him go and turns away. If he can’t control this, he can at least ignore it. 

It turns out bards are very hard to ignore. 

When Geralt eventually gives in and stops for the night, the bard is _still talking_. They’ve been walking for most of the day and his unwanted companion is limping, his feet dragging, but he’s keeping up. Geralt hasn’t tried too hard to get away from him – he’d rather not get knocked off Roach again – but he’s still, reluctantly, impressed. 

He builds a fire and pulls food out of his pack while the bard collapses in a heap under a tree and continues fiddling with his lute. It’s a fine instrument, now Geralt looks: elven manufacture, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “Where’d you get that?” he asks. 

“He speaks!” the bard says, triumphant. “It’s a good story, actually, the king of the elves gave it to me.” 

“No he didn’t,” Geralt says. 

The bard puts his head on one side and looks at Geralt with a suddenly fierce and intelligent eye. “No he didn’t,” he says. “But that’s what the song I wrote says, so that’s the truth now.” 

“You can’t rewrite history.” 

“No?” the bard asks. “You just watch me, Geralt of Rivia. I bet you anything you care to name that I can rewrite _your_ history before whatever spell your friend did wears off.” 

Geralt has the faintest sense that everything is about to slide out of his grasp. He doesn’t like the feeling much. He last felt it in the ballroom at Cintra and has been trying to avoid it ever since. He suspects this is one of the lessons Mousesack aims to teach him, that he can’t make the world behave the way he wants it to. But Geralt is old, and he’s stubborn, and he means to try. 

“Fine,” he says. “I bet you the true story of how you got that lute.” 

In the firelight the bard hesitates, just for a moment, and then nods sharply. “Deal,” he says, and then, “I think we might have got off on the wrong foot. I started out as Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, but these days I mostly go by Jaskier. I didn’t intend to wind up magically tied to a witcher when I woke up this morning but it’s not the worst thing that’s happened to me. I still owe you for the rescue, anyway, and I reckon you’ll be a good source of song material. How about we try to get through this without killing each other?” 

He’s a noble, but not entirely pompous. He looks young, but not innocent, Geralt decides. He talks too much, but he’s maybe not as stupid as the babble would imply. Anyway, it’s not like there’s much choice in the matter. “Not sure you stand a chance of killing me,” he points out. 

“Physically no, but I could aggravate you to death,” the bard – Jaskier – says, grinning. 

Geralt can’t say he’s entirely wrong. “All right,” he says. 

“Excellent,” Jaskier says, looking ridiculously pleased at the whole situation. “You’ll do your witchering, I’ll write the ballads, and the coin will flow.” 

For a moment, Geralt is half convinced. Then he catches himself. _Charisma_. It’s not to be trusted. 

He’ll pass a shit few months with a buzzing fly of a travel companion, and then it’ll be over. And what’s a few months compared to a life as long as his, anyway? Barely the blink of an eye. It’ll be fine. 

Over by his tree, Jaskier puts the lute down and lies back to look up at the stars. His breathing is steady. His heartbeat already strangely familiar.


	2. The Owl Hills

Geralt is a creature of routine, honed over most of a century. His life is lived by rote: travel, make camp, pack up camp, travel, hunt, travel. The odd inn or brothel when he has coin. He meanders more or less the same path through the northern kingdoms, south in spring, north in autumn before he winters at Kaer Morhen. He knows the best kind of places to sleep. He has a very set pattern of actions when he stops for the night. And it’s set because it makes sense. He’s _honed_ it.

Jaskier, of course, finds routine boring. 

“Seriously,” he says, two weeks later, when they’re camped at the edge of the wooded slopes of the Owl Hills. “Every single night is the same. Stop. Roach. Fire. Bedroll. Hunt. Cook. Clean or mend armour. Sharpen sword. Check potions. Eat. Sleep.”

“It’s the best order,” Geralt tells him. 

“I’m dying here, Geralt,” Jaskier complains. “I was promised adventure! Instead I get a middle-aged man with an obsessive sword-polishing regime.” He hears what he’s just said and colours faintly. “Not even the good kind of sword-polishing,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows. 

He’s currently lying on the far side of the fire to Geralt. His routine, if it can be called that, is to get in the way, play snatches of the same tune over and over and over again for hours, take half of Geralt’s food without asking, and ask irritating questions. Sometimes he manages to do all four things at once. 

“I didn’t promise you anything,” Geralt points out.

“Right, fine, but – you know, you’re a witcher. I thought adventure was, what d’you call it, inherent in the job. Fights! Monsters! Not all this wandering around and talking to people.” 

“Have to talk to people to find the monsters.” 

“They’re not even _nice_ people,” Jaskier says sulkily. He’s still smarting over his reception at the last village, the one where Geralt got this contract for a kikimore nest in the Owl Hills, where his singing was greeted with utter indifference. “I don’t actually mind when they throw rotten fruit, you know, at least it means they’re paying attention.” 

“Hmmm.” 

“It’s not like you pay attention either,” Jaskier mutters. 

This stings. Geralt notices things. He has to, or he’d be dead by now. But Jaskier’s impossible. He talks too much, too fast, about too many things to follow. On a good day, Geralt reckons he can get about seventy per cent of the detail, when he’s paying attention. On a bad day, he doesn’t bother. It’s exhausting. 

Aside from that, though, the whole ‘tied travel’ thing hasn’t been as bad as he feared. Yes, the bard talks incessantly, but he doesn’t whine about much apart from boredom, seemingly more used to roughing it than his fine clothes implied. And he shares the coin he makes equally which means they’ve had slightly better provisions than Geralt’s accustomed to. And it’s – well – Geralt’s been travelling on his own a long time. It’s not terrible, to have the sound of someone else nearby, even if they do ask too many questions. 

If it wasn’t forced on him, he’d be long gone of course, but seeing as it is. Nothing he can do about it. So. 

“Where will this nest be, anyway?” Jaskier asks. “Will we find it tomorrow? An epic battle between man and beast would really break up the monotony of ‘Geralt of Rivia grinds herbs again’.” 

“There’s no we,” Geralt says, almost startled. Jaskier sits up and points a finger at him. 

“No. Absolutely not. Unacceptable. I’ve followed you all the way from Brugge! You’re not leaving behind for the first interesting thing that’s happened.” 

“It won’t be so interesting when your guts are hanging out of your body,” Geralt says. 

Jaskier grins. “That sounds very interesting, actually, though admittedly _my_ interest in it would be short-lived.” 

He doesn’t even have the wisdom to be scared. Geralt sighs and shakes his head. “You’re not coming.” 

“I bloody am,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt solves the problem by sneaking out of his bedroll at dawn, and leaving the bard still snoring. He’s fairly sure, from the description the village elder gave him, that the kikimore nest isn’t that far into the hills. He’s been through the area before, and has seen the caves they must be lurking in; it’s not more than a mile or so from where they camped. Not far enough for Mousesack’s petty spell to get in the way, anyway.

He’s been avoiding thinking about what Mousesack intended by it, which is easy enough to do with Jaskier filling the world with noise. But now, in the morning hush, he wonders. _Practice at being needed_ , the druid said. Jaskier’s a grown man; he doesn’t need Geralt. The only reason Geralt can tolerate the situation at all is because neither of them need or expect anything from the other. 

Perhaps Mousesack just saw a frivolous musician and figured him a fair equivalent to a six-year-old girl? Geralt thinks back to Jaskier’s distaste at mud and mouldering food, the ridiculous amount of time he spends grooming himself and his constant questions, and smirks over the parallels. Mousesack wouldn’t have thought a bard would be particularly robust. Maybe that’s it: a simple mistaken assumption. No lessons to be learned at all. 

The ground slopes upwards into craggy hills before his train of thought can run much further and he sees the maw of a cave ahead of him. It’s quiet inside, for the moment; he should be able to kill some of them before the rest wake up and attack him. 

The kikimores are nestled against each other, a quivering mass of legs and thorns, all shiny chitinous armour and ragged flesh. Somewhere at the bottom of the heap the queen will lie protected. Geralt unsheathes his sword, oils it, and pierces it through the closest of the beasts. 

He manages to hack three of them apart before the mass of them wake up to their danger, the queen rattling furiously beneath them. After that, he keeps them at sword length while he casts igni, and endures the smell and shrieking as they die. The queen takes the longest, thrashing and striking out with claw and fang at empty air until he puts her out of her misery with a final thrust of his weapon. 

The stench of burned flesh is overpowering. He kneels to remove the claws quickly, keen not to linger a minute longer than he has to. 

The movement takes him completely by surprise. One of the kikimore warriors, not quite dead, rouses and scurries from the cave in a sudden rush of legs and sharp edges. The side of a claw catches at his armour, and he falls back, stumbling, before getting to his feet again and giving chase. 

He’s barely outside the cave when a cry splits the air: agonised, mindless. He runs. The kikimore has reached the edge of the wood. Its legs are broken from the damage Geralt inflicted; it’s collapsed forward, shaking at its prey. Geralt hurls his sword and it spins in great circles of flashing silver before burying itself in the back of the beast’s head. 

The kikimore crumples. Silence creeps back in; near silence, except for panting, pained breaths and the beat of a too-fast heart. 

Geralt swears and pulls the corpse to one side, tearing the claw from where it’s sunk deep into Jaskier’s shoulder. The bard blinks up at him, dazed, blood welling up through his clothes and running into the pale skin of his neck. “There you are,” he says, and then his eyes roll back in his head and he’s out. 

There’s not much Geralt can do for him there, aside from press down on the injury. Once the bleeding’s slowed enough to be safe, he scoops Jaskier up over his shoulder and carries him down to the campsite. He’s heavier than he looks, awkward too, his limbs unwieldy. He stirs once, murmurs Geralt’s name confusedly before passing out again. Geralt can feel the blood wet on his back, and walks faster. 

_Fucking idiot_ , he thinks, as he boils water, prepares needle and thread. He tears away the doublet, wipes away the blood to see the wound properly, flushes it out with a watered-down antiseptic. _Fucking idiot bard, what the fuck was he thinking_.

Jaskier startles awake at the first pass of needle through flesh, arching up in pain. “Oh gods that hurts,” he moans, collapsing again. 

“Told you not to come,” Geralt mutters. “This is why.” He keeps working. Jaskier lies still, looking straight up at the sky, breathing in short gasps, his fingers digging furrows in the grass. He’s surprisingly quiet, lips pressed together. Geralt would’ve expected him to be screaming. 

The gash is deep but not wide; it doesn’t need many stitches. “Nearly done,” Geralt says. “It won’t scar much.” 

“Wouldn’t be my first,” Jaskier whispers, eyes far away and blinking with tears. “You were gone. Geralt. You were gone and—” 

“You followed me,” Geralt says. He ties off his thread and wraps the wound back up in scraps of Jaskier’s bloodstained shirt.

“For the adventure,” Jaskier says, a small crooked grin on his lips. 

“Don’t do it again.” 

Jaskier just grins wider, teeth white against whiter skin. He says, “no promises.” 

Later, he has a lot more to say, mostly about his ruined shirt and doublet. Geralt tells him that if he’d stayed put he wouldn’t have anything to complain about; Jaskier tells Geralt that a bard’s best work comes from the study of life itself, so what choice did he have but to witness the hunt? 

“You’ll have the scar to bear witness for the rest of your life,” Geralt says. He feels very tired. There’s blood under his nails still. He doesn’t need this. This worry. This burden. 

“A war wound,” Jaskier says cheerfully. He’s sitting up, sipping at water and occasionally prodding at his shoulder and wincing, like a child. “I’ll have to work my bravery into the song.” 

“What bravery?” Geralt huffs.

“What song, I hear you ask?” Jaskier says, and proceeds to describe it, since he can’t currently play it. Geralt stops listening around the third line of nonsense about a witcher saving a bold bard’s life. “You’re piling up the rescues, Geralt. I’ll have to start counting them. Though does it count as a rescue if it’s your fault I was in danger?” 

“It’s not my fault,” Geralt says, aggrieved. “I told you to stay away.” 

“Yeah, but that was never going to happen,” Jaskier says, yawning. “We’ll work it out better next time.”

_There won’t be a next time_ , Geralt thinks. But he doesn’t say it. He can picture Jaskier’s response, bright eyes and unconcern and a ruthless disregard for what Geralt wants. 

This is why he’s better off alone. People get ideas. And then they get hurt. 

When Jaskier’s asleep again, Geralt goes back to the case to get his swords and the claws. His fingers touch the hilt of his sword, the curves of the brooch.

Maybe it would be better if he let Jaskier come with him. At least then he can make sure the bard knows what to expect. At least he can keep an eye on him.


	3. Dorian

The inn is more crowded than Geralt would like. He’s sitting in its quietest corner, the one nearest the exit. When people push open the door to come in he’s practically hidden behind it; when it closes he’s caught in the rush of the fresh spring breeze. Which is probably why no one wants to sit nearby, which is fine with him. 

He’s still not quite sure how Jaskier managed to persuade him to make the detour. There aren’t any contracts here, no way to earn coin, and that’s the only thing that can tempt him into a city usually. Dorian’s small, but it’s still a city: too many people looking at him with suspicion and fear; too many smells, shit and rotten food and unwashed flesh crowded into too small a space. 

But Jaskier was relentless. He needed civilisation, he said. _Just one night of it, Geralt, please, I haven’t seen anything but pigsties and fields and swamps for weeks; I need wine; I need to visit a tailor; I need to wash in a bath not a stream; I need lute strings; Geralt, you’re killing me, do you want me to die? I’m too young to die…_

It’s almost impressive, how much Jaskier can whine when he’s in the mood to. He doesn’t even repeat himself much. After three days of it Geralt was losing his gods-damned mind. Since he couldn’t actually leave Jaskier behind, eventually he decided giving in gracelessly was better than doing something he’d regret. 

(“I could _make_ you shut up,” he snarled at one point, fists clenched, rounding on the bard. And Jaskier just patted his chest, and said, “Yeah, but you won’t though.” He looked so… open, trusting and fearless, and Geralt turned away, blood thrumming in his veins, and took the next turning to Dorian.) 

When the city appeared on the horizon Jaskier stopped, briefly, lute falling silent. Geralt carried on walking, and after a few paces Jaskier caught up with him, hand outstretched as if he wanted to touch him, but he didn’t. He said, “Thank you, Geralt, I’m glad you see my point of view,” surprised and pleased, and then kept quiet for nearly a full hour. 

Once past Dorian’s walls, he led Geralt to an inn he claimed was the finest in town, took a room and then went shopping. Geralt groomed Roach, spent a few hours meditating and going through his gear in relative comfort, and then ventured back down to the main tavern for a drink. It’s the first time they’ve been apart in nearly six weeks on the road. Geralt’s enjoying it, but not, perhaps, quite as much as he thought he would. 

The door bursts open, spilling in more spring air and Jaskier. Geralt watches him go over to the bar and haggle with the innkeeper briefly. Coin changes hands, then the innkeeper points to Geralt’s corner and Jaskier saunters towards him. 

“Excellent lurking,” he tells Geralt when he reaches the table. “Didn’t see you there at all.” 

Geralt sighs. “I’m just sitting.”

“In the darkest, broodiest, lurkiest corner,” Jaskier says. “Yes, I know that’s not a word, don’t look so outraged. Come on. I paid for baths. Don’t you want a bath? I love baths.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says. He does like baths, and he doesn’t get to indulge that often. 

The inn has a proper washroom in the basement, which might be why Jaskier claimed it as the finest in the city: five copper tubs are lined up along one wall, fed by pipes, a furnace roaring at one end to heat the water. It’s hot and humid, and Geralt can feel his muscles relax from the steam alone. He sheds his clothing – he’s not modest at the best of times, and he and Jaskier have been travelling together long enough he’s got nothing left to hide even if he were – and eases into one of the tubs with a deep sigh. 

When he opens his eyes, Jaskier’s standing frozen, one hand on the buttons at the top of his doublet. When he notices Geralt looking he flushes and turns his back, getting undressed swiftly. Geralt smirks to himself. The man’s not subtle. Geralt doesn’t shit where he eats, especially now, when he can’t just leave in the morning, but still. He’s so rarely lusted after, he’ll enjoy it when it happens. 

He’s also not above looking his fill, with Jaskier facing away from him; it’s not like the bard will ever know, and he probably wouldn’t believe it anyway. He’s not bad looking, Geralt supposes. He’s young and lean and unmarked, and that counts for a lot, with most people. He often brags of falling from bed to bed to bed, and while Geralt’s sure the tales are exaggerated, they’re likely not fundamentally untrue.

The light shifts and Geralt frowns. Jaskier’s _mostly_ unmarked, certainly, but Geralt can see scars in the shadows, thin lines down the curve of his back, from a cane perhaps. 

It’s none of his business. He closes his eyes again and drifts in the warmth. 

Beside him, he can hear Jaskier splashing a little, the smell of lavender soap. “Ah, I needed this,” Jaskier murmurs. There’s a pause, and then he continues, emulating Geralt’s gruff voice. “‘So did I, Jaskier. Thank you, Jaskier.’ You’re welcome, Geralt.” 

“I didn’t need it,” Geralt says. 

“Of course, I forgot,’ Jaskier says, his voice slipping an octave lower in imitation again. “‘I’m Geralt of Rivia. I fight monsters and need nobody.’”

Geralt doesn’t answer. It’s true, after all. He hears Jaskier sigh, and then fall silent. After a time, he hears him get out of the bath and pad away to find a towel. There’s the sound of water hissing through the pipes, and then steps coming closer. 

“You do need to wash your hair, though,” Jaskier says, and dumps a bucket of water over his head. 

Geralt flails upright, hissing, spluttering as he chokes on the water. When he’s blinked it away enough to see, Jaskier’s bent double, howling with laughter. “Your _face_ ,” he whimpers. “Like a drowned rat! The drowned witcher, bested by a bard with a bucket!” 

“Fuck off, Jaskier.” He shakes his hair, splattering drops in Jaskier’s direction, making him squeak and jump backwards, clutching his towel round his waist. 

“Mercy, mercy,” he says, still giggling. “I’m going. I promised to play a few songs for our supper, and I’m sure you’d rather not suffer through that. See you later, Geralt. Please don’t kill me.” 

Geralt bares his teeth at him halfheartedly. He waits till Jaskier’s dressed and gone before reaching reluctantly for the soap to wash his hair. It’s wet anyway. He might as well. 

By the time he’s finished bathing and dressing and returned upstairs, Jaskier is mid performance, and the whole inn is singing along with him. Geralt stops on his way upstairs to listen. It’s a bawdy piece, full of innuendo; he’s heard it before a few times. He’s vaguely impressed by how personal Jaskier makes it sound, as if the events of the song actually happened, and moreover actually happened to him. 

When the song’s over, the drinkers cheer and stamp their feet. Geralt grimaces at the swell of noise and decides to retreat, but stops again when Jaskier says, “ah, this one is a bit different. My own composition! No, don’t groan – ” he strums a high chord on the lute to interrupt the grumbling – “you’ll like it, my friends, would I lie to you?” 

Geralt rolls his eyes, even though no one can see him. Jaskier starts singing. To begin with Geralt can’t quite make out the words but then it gets to the chorus and it’s. It’s about him. Jaskier’s singing about _him_.

But not really. In the song he’s a hero, a knight, protecting the innocent, righting wrongs… 

The air is suddenly very warm, and Geralt feels like he should go in there, _stop it_. But he doesn’t move. Just listens to Jaskier sing about this made-up version of him, this unrecognisable man he once dreamed of being. 

It’s not true. It isn’t, though he used to hope it could be. He feels like he’s caught in a trap. It’s just _words_. But it’s also a wish. 

The song ends, and he hears Jaskier’s clothes rustle as he bows. The applause is less keen than it was before, but there is some, and coins clink as they’re thrown in Jaskier’s direction. 

Geralt moves before he can stop himself, edging round the doorway so he can see Jaskier passing through the crowd, face flushed; so he can see a crowd which isn’t spitting on the ground at the very mention of the word witcher. 

At the edge of the room, someone shifts and stands and says, “mutant scum.” 

He’s not even looking at Geralt. He’s looking at Jaskier. 

Jaskier turns and slings his lute over his back. “What did you say, my good man?”

“Mutant scum,” the man repeats. He’s tall, broad, dark hair and a broken nose. “Don’t come in here and expect respectable folk to praise a butcher.” He’s pushing past the tables now, moving towards Jaskier, a little unsteady. He’s drunk enough to want to start a fight, Geralt can smell it: adrenaline and aggression. But he’s not drunk enough to make him unthreatening. Geralt moves a pace or two further into the room, just in case. 

Jaskier watches the man lurch towards him, hands by his side, entirely unfussed. “Say that again,” he says, when the man is right up against him. They’re more or less matched in height, but the drunk is twice as thick, arms heavy with muscle. The inn has gone quiet around them, an air of keen delight building. Bloodlust. Geralt fights for a living, because someone has to. He’s never understood why men _enjoy_ it. 

“Mutant,” the man spits, one hand coming up to clutch at Jaskier’s doublet, “scum.” 

Jaskier punches him. 

It’s a good punch, is the thing. Thumb neatly tucked outside of his fist, arm swung from the shoulder with a decent amount of power behind it. The punch snaps the man’s head back, a spray of blood erupting from his nose. He staggers, rebounds, moves to return the favour, and Jaskier ducks, and the man’s fist hits a complete stranger, and the whole inn erupts. 

Before he can think better of it Geralt wades through the fray and drags Jaskier out by the strap of his lute. He has to elbow a couple of people out of the way as he goes; Jaskier contributes by pouring a tankard of ale over a man who tries to knife Geralt; and it only takes a couple of minutes before they’re safely back in the corridor while the rest of the drinkers cheerfully join in with the mayhem. 

“What the fuck,” Geralt says after a moment. 

Jaskier is on tiptoes, slightly straining at the grip Geralt still has on him, like he’s Roach being reined in. “Oh come on, I couldn’t let that stand,” he says. “I could’ve held my own, anyway. I used to live in Oxenfurt, the brawls between the students and the townies were much more violent than this.” 

Out in the tavern, someone smashes a chair over someone else’s head. 

“Still,” Jaskier says, blinking, “thanks for the rescue.” He dips into a curtsey and bats his eyelashes up at Geralt. “My hero! And so forth.” 

The innkeeper clambers onto the bar and strikes it, hard, with a club. It’s tipped with iron, makes quite a dent in the wood. “Stop that shit!” he yells, and the customers leave off their tussling and return to their seats. “And as for you, bard,” he shouts in their direction, “you can fuck off and take your pet monster with you.” 

Geralt feels Jaskier bristle, muscles tense and ready for another fight, so he solves the problem by lifting him bodily and pushing him upstairs to fetch their things. 

It’s not the first time Geralt’s been forced out of an inn. It _is_ the first time anyone’s minded. It’s surprisingly gratifying.

Later, outside Dorian, Jaskier lifts a bag of coin from his doublet and throws it at Geralt, who catches it easily. “What’s this?” 

“Nicked it off the arsehole who insulted you,” Jaskier says without any guilt whatsoever. “Call it compensation for the loss of the room.” 

“Hmmm,” says Geralt. Singer, brawler, thief. Jaskier’s not much like any other bard he’s encountered. “Wouldn’t need compensation if you hadn’t started the fight.” 

“I’m not taking the blame for this,” Jaskier says, looking innocent and saddened. “It’s not my fault some people are crying out to have their noses broken.” 

“I’m not complaining,” Geralt says. “You were the one who insisted on civilisation.” 

Jaskier grins at him and then lies back on his bedroll. “Having given it careful consideration,” he says, “I’ve decided civilisation can do one.” 

There’s a tune repeating in Geralt’s head. The song Jaskier was singing, the one about witchers. 

It’s catchy.


	4. On the banks of the Ismena

Spring turns into summer, and summer turns hot, and there’s no sign of Mousesack’s spell diminishing. Geralt hasn’t tested it, but he can feel it when he focuses, a small tug in his gut like a compass, always pointing in Jaskier’s direction. He doesn’t know what Jaskier feels, if anything. 

They pass from village to village, inn to inn, contract to contract, in a blur of monsters and music. Jaskier’s witcher song becomes unaccountably popular and he writes others. People start looking at Geralt with a deal less wariness. One alderman even calls him _White Wolf_ , which Jaskier crows about for days. 

It can’t last, Geralt thinks. Nothing in his life has ever come this easy. Sometimes he wonders if it’s down to the spell Mousesack cast, but then he sees Jaskier charming everyone else he meets and figures it’s a power all the bard’s own. He has no idea what Jaskier feels about it, but the man doesn’t seem unhappy. He grouches occasionally: when Geralt insists on him waiting further away from a fight than he wants to, or when people don’t treat his singing with the respect he thinks it deserves, or if he goes too many days without hot water, but he truly doesn’t seem to mind traipsing after an inhuman mutant. 

It doesn’t make any sense. It can’t last. 

In a no-account village not far from the river, just four or five houses scraped together, Geralt hears word of a wraith. Two men died before they started avoiding the place where it haunts. The villagers know where it strikes – near a falling-down barn that’s not been used in years – but claim to have no idea where it came from, or more importantly where the body is buried. It’s not that Geralt can’t kill a wraith, but it’s so much easier if you can burn the remains rather than fight a ghost. 

He explains this to Jaskier, while they’re sitting in the field waiting to see if the wraith appears. 

“So they’re undead?” Jaskier asks.

“Not really. Not like vampires. They don’t remember who they were, just that they were angry. They usually died badly. Left something unfinished.”

“Brrr,” Jaskier says dramatically, for effect. It’s a warm night, after all, with a full moon bright in the sky. “And you think that someone in the village knows where the wraith came from?” 

“They usually do. But they usually won’t admit it.” Geralt sighs. It’d be so much easier if people would just tell him what he needs to know. It’s not like he’s going to do anything with the information. 

“Huh,” Jaskier says. “I guess that’s kind of poetic. An injured spirit, returning for revenge. Definitely a song there.” Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier nudges his knee. “I know that silence. That’s a silence of disagreement.”

“It’s not poetic,” Geralt tells him. “It’s mindless fury, evil piled on evil. There’s no moral.” 

“Oh, well, morality,” Jaskier says, waving a hand in dismissal. “I’ve never cared much about that.” His mobile face goes still; Geralt wonders what he’s thinking. But the moment passes, and he returns to vague chatter about studying music at Oxenfurt and the inns he used to frequent and— 

Geralt’s well able to tune him out by now. He lets it wash into the background and keeps his eyes open. The wraith doesn’t show. 

The next day, Geralt meditates in the field, still waiting. Jaskier returns to the stable where they’re bedding down to sleep. Midday comes and goes in a haze of sun beating down; the evening draws in hot and humid. He snacks on jerky and dry biscuit and is a little surprised that Jaskier hasn’t rejoined the vigil. Though the bard often gets distracted if there’s a chance of a dalliance. 

The moon is past its zenith and the glow of dawn clear in the sky when the wraith finally appears in a jittery burst of movement and tattered cloth. Geralt’s sword is newly oiled; he casts Yrden, holding the spectre corporeal as he gets closer, while it wails and thrashes against the bonds. He’s nearly ready to strike, nearly ready to be smug at how smooth it’s all gone, when he hears running footsteps and makes the mistake of looking round. 

It’s Jaskier, because of course it is – running like the devil is after him, panting like his lungs are about to give out. He’s not heading for Geralt though, but for the barn in the corner of the field, a derelict heap of wood one breath away from falling over completely. 

The wraith shrieks, and Geralt’s hold on the sign snaps, and it vanishes, reappearing yards away from where Jaskier is approaching the barn. Geralt swears and chases after it and Jaskier turns and the wraith is at him, swinging its sword as Jaskier stumbles backwards. The smell of blood blooms and Geralt swears again and casts aard, picking Jaskier up and tumbling him out of the wraith’s reach. 

The wraith shifts to look back at him and jumps from something to nothing to _right beside him_ and Geralt blocks its sword instinctively and strikes at it with his own, watching the blade pass through it like there’s nothing there at all. 

Jaskier shouts something high pitched and incomprehensible and Geralt backs towards him, his eyes on the wraith, which seems briefly uncertain about which of them to attack first. Jaskier gasps and then tries again: “Body,” he wheezes. “Barn.” 

The wraith shrieks, mindless and piercing and high, and Geralt throws igni at the barn. It’s been dry for weeks; it catches almost immediately. The wraith shivers and vanishes and reappears right by the burning building, hovering as if it wants to enter but can’t. 

Geralt runs to where Jaskier is sprawled, hand pressed to his side. “Fucking idiot,” Geralt tells him, falling to his knees, and peels away Jaskier’s fingers to see a thankfully thin trickle of blood from a gouge in his side. “You could have been eviscerated.” 

“Good word,” Jaskier mutters. He’s shaking despite the warm night. Geralt pats him on the shoulder and stands to check on the wraith. It still seems frozen, and then the barn collapses in on itself with a flurry of sparks and when they clear it’s not there at all. He feels a pressure lift from the air, his ears clearing with a pop. 

The sun is rising, weak beams threading through smoky air. On the ground, Jaskier is stirring, swearing at the pain. Geralt looks down. “What the fuck were you thinking?” He’s maybe more angry than he thought, his words coming out sharp and biting. 

Jaskier’s face closes off. “I was _trying_ to help. All part of the service.” 

“What fucking service?” 

“You know.” Jaskier pushes down, pulls his legs up, comes wobbly to standing. “The plucky sidekick.” 

“You’re not my sidekick,” Geralt says, scowling. He watches Jaskier sway, and reaches an arm round his back to hold him steady. 

“Faithful companion? Comic relief?” Jaskier’s trying to smile but he looks pale, hurt. 

“Pain in the arse,” Geralt grumbles. They start limping back towards the village, Jaskier huffing out short pained breaths when the uneven ground makes him twist. “I had it under control. What did you come out here for anyway?”

“I got the blacksmith drunk enough to tell me where the body was,” Jaskier says. “Thought it might help. Sorry you had to rescue me again.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer. What can he say? It’s fine? Stop throwing yourself into danger so you stop needing to be saved? 

The first of the houses comes into view. Most of the village seems to have either woken up early or stayed up all night; they’re gathered in a clump by the stables, waiting for Geralt’s return. When they see him, the elder takes an uncertain step forward. “Is it dead?” 

Before Geralt can nod, Jaskier straightens up next to him and says in a clear ringing voice, “his _name_ was Elek and he died of starvation months ago. But you all knew that, didn’t you?” 

There’s a collective flinch. The elder’s mouth thins into a line. He throws a meagre bag of coin in Geralt’s direction. It lands in the dry dust between them, and Geralt looks at it, and then up at the man. “The wraith is gone and the barn is burned,” he says, slowly. “It’s done.” 

The crowd disperses, eyes downcast, not acknowledging each other or him or Jaskier, whose body is trembling with suppressed rage beside him. When the street is clear, Geralt picks up the coin and helps Jaskier over to the stable so he can collect their things and load Roach with bags and lute. 

“He came begging during the first frost,” Jaskier says dully from where he’s leaning against the door. “They said they had nothing to spare. Couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. So he slunk away and died alone. They didn’t even know there was a body in the barn till spring, and then they were too ashamed to deal with it.” 

“And then the wraith came.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier says. His eyes are closed. He seems more upset than Geralt can understand. “And I’m glad of it. I’m glad they got a reminder of what happens when you don’t care.” 

“More death doesn’t fix the first death,” Geralt says mildly. “Maybe they didn’t have enough food. It’s hard, some winters.” He’s not sure Jaskier’s ever gone hungry, ever had to fear the cliff edge the way this village might. 

“But you can try,” Jaskier says. “You would have tried.” 

Geralt leads Roach towards the entrance. Neither he nor Jaskier have slept all night but he wants to get out of here, away from the smell of guilt and Jaskier’s anger. “I’m not a hero,” he says. “That’s just in your songs.” 

Jaskier looks like he’s going to argue but then he tightens his lips and turns his head away. 

It’s midday by the time they reach the Ismena and the sun is baking, a heat haze making the world shimmer and sway. Jaskier is quiet, walking sulkily a few steps back, kicking up dust. Roach is snorting with displeasure. They should probably rest, get into the shade, but Geralt doesn’t want to stop. He wants to be miles from the nameless village and the named wraith. Every time he kills one he carries their stories with them. Now he has another. 

Behind him Jaskier sighs, and then there’s a thud as his knees hit the ground and another as his head follows. When Geralt turns, too slow, he’s lying sprawled on the path, curled up over himself. His skin is flushed. Geralt rolls him over, feels the heat rise from the scratch on his side, the wound red and angry. 

He didn’t think. Fuck. He didn’t _think_. And then he marched Jaskier without rest through the hottest day so far, not even stopping for water. He forgot Jaskier isn’t like him, that he isn’t simply his shadow. 

There’s a clump of trees not far off, overhanging a gentle sloping bank. Geralt lays Jaskier down on the faded grass, and takes off Roach’s tack and saddlebags. She snorts at him disgruntledly and goes down to the river to drink her fill. 

Jaskier is hot to the touch, his face creased in confusion, his eyes blinking open and closed slowly. He looks as hazy as the air, far away. “I’m sorry,” he says, trying to smile. It’s the charming one he tries when innkeepers say no or alderman withhold coin. It doesn’t quite work when set against a brow furrowed with pain and a vacant stare. 

“Ssshh,” Geralt tells him. He needs to clean the wound, like he should have hours ago. He wrestles Jaskier out of his shirt and breeches, leaving him in his smallclothes. Jaskier shudders, body twisting, though whether he’s trying to help or hinder Geralt can’t tell. Heat is rising from him, though Geralt thinks, hopes, it’s more sun-touch than infection. 

He strips himself quickly, carries Jaskier down to the river and wades in, sitting down with Jaskier pressed against him. The water is cool and clear. Jaskier lets his arm fall, trailing it through the current. “Sorry,” he says again. 

“No need,” Geralt says curtly. As if Jaskier’s the one who should apologise, when Geralt’s the one who didn’t think, who chose instead to be annoyed. 

“I’ll do better,” Jaskier says. He thrashes, tries to turn to look at Geralt. “I promise. I’ll do better next time.” 

His blue eyes are clouded, his voice strange. Higher, but there’s something else too, the trace of a different accent. Geralt doesn’t recognise it. He’s not sure Jaskier has recognised him. 

“There won’t be a next time,” Geralt tells him, but it’s the wrong thing to say: Jaskier looks terrified. He starts babbling, apologies, promises, pleas, a stream of words that contain no sense at all. All Geralt can do is hold him, one hand clutching Jaskier’s, and wait for the storm to subside. 

When it passes at last, he thinks Jaskier is asleep, but then he hears a whisper, faint. “His name was Elek.”

“I know.” 

“People die in winter,” Jaskier murmurs, delirious. “The snow covers them over and no one finds them till spring.” 

“I know, Jaskier.” 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, eyes wandering, and then finally falls silent. Geralt dips a hand in the water, lifts it to his lips. Jaskier drinks obediently. His body is still and trusting in Geralt’s arms. He doesn’t speak again. 

Later that night, wound cleaned and bandaged and fever mostly diminished thanks to fresh water and rest, Jaskier says, “I’ve lost track of the rescues now.”

“Hmmm,” Geralt says. 

“Oh, a contradicting hmmm,” Jaskier says, grinning. “This one definitely counts. If it counts when you blame me, then it counts when you blame yourself too. It’s all about, y’know, the thingy. The intention. Or maybe the end result. I mean you’re still doing the rescuing, no matter the cause.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says. 

“A considering hmmm! I’ll take it.” Jaskier yawns, and reaches from his bedroll to touch Geralt’s hand. “Thank you, Geralt. You’re a good man.” 

He says it so effortlessly, like it’s a truth that cannot be denied. Like Geralt would always do the right thing, like he’ll always be there to rescue him. Jaskier’s fingers are resting gently on the back of Geralt’s hand and it would be the easiest thing in the world to thread their fingers together. Geralt can feel Jaskier’s eyes on him. He can feel him wanting. It would be the easiest thing in the world—

But he won’t. He moves his hand away, and Jaskier blinks and turns over on his side. 

If he keeps Jaskier with him, Jaskier will keep getting hurt. He’ll keep reaching out, and trying to help, and Geralt will keep turning him away because he must, because otherwise he’ll only hurt Jaskier worse. 

There must be a way to free the bard from Mousesack’s stupid joke. There must be a way to save him from the danger that will follow him as long as he follows Geralt. 

If the spell won’t go away of its own accord, Geralt will find a way to make it. 

He listens to Jaskier’s soft snores, and fails to sleep.


	5. Rinde

Geralt sneaks out of the bedroll before dawn, in a strange repetition of his first hunt after meeting Jaskier. He wasn’t sleeping anyway. He hasn’t been sleeping well. 

The rumour of the djinn reached him in a tavern two villages back, and he’s been directing their steps this way since. It’s probably nothing, but he has to _try_. 

Jaskier’s been watching him more than usual, something sharp yet tentative in his gaze. At night his bedroll inches closer. He never says anything – or rather, in the millions upon millions of words he spews daily he never says anything about _that_. Geralt’s not sure why this is the thing Jaskier’s reticent about, but he knows he has to put an end to it before that changes. 

It’s peaceful by the river, to begin with. 

But then Jaskier turns up, and Geralt says things he shouldn’t, and Jaskier mocks him, and they fight, and the amphora falls, and Jaskier wishes – for a death, for a lover, for absurdities – and Geralt swears, and Jaskier opens his mouth to frame a retort, and bright red blood spills up and over. 

After he’s got Jaskier to Rinde, after Jaskier has passed out on the bed, the mage says, “that’s a funny little spell.” 

She’s beautiful, and amused, and there’s something about her that burns. Geralt doesn’t trust mages, and particularly not this one; she’s too powerful to be indulging in hedgewitch sex magics, which means she’s hiding from something. 

“It’s a long story,” Geralt says, and the mage glances up at him, smiles slyly. 

“You’ll have to tell it to me, sometime,” she says. “Especially since it’s fraying at the edges; it should have worn off weeks ago. Seems like one or other of you didn’t want to cut ties.” 

Geralt doesn’t know what his face does, but her smile edges wider. “I could fix it stronger, if you want me to,” she says, mocking.

“No,” he growls, the word choked, remembering Jaskier struggling to speak, blood welling from his damaged throat. “Get rid of it.” 

It was Jaskier, it must have been, deluded into thinking that he and Geralt were partners, that their association meant something. He must have thought he could continue mining Geralt’s life for music, that Geralt would put up with it, that they could have been more than fellow travellers. 

Best to end it, before Jaskier can get hurt again. 

“There,” the mage says, twisting a hand over Jaskier’s chest. “The spell’s gone.” 

Geralt feels it, briefly, like a hollowness inside, a chill where there had been something like warmth. But it soon passes. 

“What do I owe you?” he asks, and she flashes her teeth, predatory and bright. 

When he wakes, after the prison, the djinn, the wish, the _sex_ , Yennefer is standing at the window of the basement. It’s night, he can see a glimmer of moon. 

“You still owe me,” she says, when she hears him stirring. 

“I saved your life,” he points out, keeping his tone amiable. “After you nearly got me killed, too.” 

“How very male of you to think that my life needed saving,” she bites out. “I would have been fine.” 

He almost believes it. If anyone could find a way, it would be this woman. Looking at her is like looking at a flame, mesmerising, beautiful. Deadly, if you get too close. 

“Well, let me know if you need my services again,” he says. 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “I will,” she says, “don’t doubt it.” She lifts an elegant hand, and opens up a portal. 

As she steps through, Geralt feels it: a tug in his gut, pulling at him. He even takes an involuntary step forward before the portal closes and the sensation ebbs. 

Fuck.

He pictures Mousesack’s face then, sceptical yet patient. _You don’t like being needed, do you. Call it practice._

And this is why, he realises, this is why he doesn’t like being needed, because he needs; he needs so much that the minute one tie is cut he wishes for another one. It was never Jaskier prolonging the spell, of course it wasn’t. It was him. 

Jaskier. Yennefer. The princess. All bound to him because he willed it, because somewhere deep inside him, he cannot bear to be alone, to be unwanted, the way he has been his entire life. 

Well. He’ll just have to get used to it again. 

When he emerges from the basement, Jaskier’s waiting for him by the gate, sitting on a piece of fallen masonry like it’s the finest chair, hunched over his lute. Geralt watches him, for a moment: his hair edged with silver in the moonlight, blood still dark on his white shirt, long clever fingers plucking sound into the silence. 

He must make some noise, because Jaskier looks up, and a glad expression passes over his face. “Geralt! Still not dead, I see. I was worried, I’ll admit it. First I thought the house had fallen on you, then I saw the witch had fallen on you, and who knows how that kind of thing might go, but here you are, hale and whole.” 

“Spell’s broken,” Geralt tells him. 

Jaskier nods. The gladness in his face stays fixed, but it leaves his eyes. “Indeed,” he says. “I woke up and didn’t instantly know where you were, so I knew it was gone. For a moment there I thought I’d have to rescue myself, but you came through like you always do.” 

“Jaskier, I—” Geralt says, and then stops. He can’t bring himself to admit his fault, that his wish for peace nearly killed the man. Let Jaskier think of him as a hero one last time. It’ll make for a better song. 

“I’ll get out of your hair then,” Jaskier says. “See if I can get the countess to open her arms to me, djinn or no djinn. It’s been a while since I was at court, I can’t have them forgetting me.” 

Geralt doesn’t answer. He wasn’t expecting Jaskier to leave, thought he’d be the one who had to go, but it’s better this way. And it makes sense. Why would Jaskier want to stay a second longer than he has to? All this time, Geralt had thought Jaskier was following him because he liked his company, even allowed himself to dream Jaskier wanted him, and all this time it was just the spell. 

Jaskier stands and stretches, rearranges his pack and lute over his shoulder. He walks up to Geralt and pulls him into a hug, and Geralt, too surprised to resist, lets him. Jaskier pats him on the shoulder and takes a step back. “I won our bet, by the way,” he says. 

It takes Geralt a while to remember, and then to understand. That Jaskier could rewrite his history before the spell passed. The songs that led to better coin and fewer glares and a stupid nickname. “You did,” he agrees. “Fair and square.”

Jaskier bows, an exaggerated courtly gesture. “Fare well, o White Wolf,” he says, and then grins. “See you around, Geralt.” 

Geralt can only nod, words locked into his throat. 

Jaskier walks away. His back is straight, his steps don’t falter, and soon enough he turns a corner and is lost to sight.

Roach is grazing nearby, his swords and armour and bedroll gathered next to her; Jaskier must have found it all somewhere. Geralt runs a hand through her mane. “Just you and me again, girl,” he tells her, and Roach chews on his hair, whickering in a vague complaint. 

He’ll need to find her apples and sugar the way Jaskier used to; he doesn’t want her to go without. Otherwise, everything will be just as it was before. He’ll steer clear of Jaskier and Yennefer and Cintra, and destiny can lump it. Geralt will claim nothing, and let no one claim him. 

He mounts Roach, and turns in the opposite direction to the bard. 

He rides for five miles, feels nothing but a faint twinge of regret, and keeps going.


	6. Somewhere on the road in Ghelibol

Four years pass. 

From time to time, his path crosses Yennefer’s. They flirt, and fight, and fuck, and every time he feels the tug in his gut as the bond tightens. When they part, he swears to himself that he will resist it, next time they meet. He never does. 

Occasionally, in taverns or in a market square, he’ll hear a song that reminds him of Jaskier: something in the rhyme scheme or the underlying rhythm. He knows bards swap songs and play whatever’s popular so it’s possible he’s listening to one of Jaskier’s compositions, but he has no way of telling. 

Sometimes he hears one of the original White Wolf songs, and in those towns the coin is a little more generous, the welcome a little warmer. In those towns he goes to bed with food in his belly yet still feeling hollow. 

The Continent is large, and Geralt’s path unpredictable, and humans’ lives are short. The chances are that Jaskier will die a few decades from now and Geralt will never know what became of him. 

He doesn’t think about it much. There’s always another contract to occupy his mind. 

And the months go by, and the seasons turn, and in Cintra Princess Cirilla celebrates her tenth birthday. Geralt finishes up a contract on some nekkers and decides to head south towards Redania, for no particular reason. 

The roads in this part of Ghelibol aren’t particularly safe, but few bandits would be foolish enough to bother a witcher. There is occasional evidence of attacks – burned wagons, abandoned belongings – but for the most part the paths are clear. When he does encounter travellers they are in great numbers, and well armed. 

Which is why he’s surprised, as he nears a bend in the road, to hear a lone voice saying, “Look, I know you don’t want to believe this, but I swear I have nothing else for you to steal.” 

The voice is oddly relaxed, though it’s accompanied by a thundering heartbeat that gives it the lie. It’s also somewhat familiar. 

Geralt picks up his pace. 

“I can see this is a conundrum,” the voice says. “You want coin, I want to live, I’d give it to you if I had it, but I truly don’t.” 

There’s a low dissenting mumble. 

“Yes, I know I _look_ rich,” comes the answer. “It’s all for show, you have to dress to impress. You’re welcome to my clothes, but I don’t think they’d suit you.” 

Geralt rounds the corner. There’s a thickset man in mismatched armour standing in the middle of the road, looming over another man kneeling in the dust. The second man is stripped bare, hands covering his groin. His head is tipped backwards, arching away from the sword nudging at his throat. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, blinking in surprise. “Hello, Geralt.” 

The bandit swings round, his sword twisting with him. Jaskier lets out a slightly strangled shout as it whips through the air. “Who the fuck are you?” the bandit asks. 

“Don’t you recognise him?” Jaskier sounds almost outraged. “That’s Geralt of Rivia! The White Wolf! Toss a coin to your witcher, you don’t know that one?” He hums a few bars. 

Geralt and the bandit both look at him, united for a moment in disbelief. 

“He’s a bard,” Geralt explains. “Not a noble.” 

He sees Jaskier opening his mouth to argue and then thinking better of it. “Exactly the point I was trying to make,” he says instead. “We’re having a minor difference of opinion about whether I am, in fact, cunningly hiding a great sum of money somewhere.” 

“He spends it as soon as he gets it,” Geralt tells the bandit, in a commiserating tone. “Clothes, food, women. Not your lucky day.”

The bandit glares and moves towards Geralt. Behind him, Jaskier looks outraged. “What, you take _his_ word for it?” 

“What about you then, freak?” the bandit says. “Bet those swords would fetch a pretty penny—”

Geralt sighs. 

The fight is, not surprisingly, short. He leaves the bandit to curse his bad luck while he bleeds out on the road, and walks over to Jaskier. 

The bard is clumsily attempting to put his clothes back on. His movements are surprisingly unco-ordinated, though when he hops away on one leg, Geralt sees a clump of matted bloody hair on the back of his head which may explain it. 

“Y’seen my lute?” Jaskier mumbles when he’s mostly dressed. “He didn’t think that was worth stealing either, the uncultured cretin. Threw it down somewhere.” He takes an unsteady step forward and throws his arms around Geralt in an embrace that seems mostly about stopping himself from falling over. “Hello again.” 

“Hello, Jaskier,” Geralt says, amused. “I think you should sit down.” 

“Mmmm. Yeah, probably,” Jaskier admits, and leans on Geralt harder. 

It takes a good hour to find Jaskier’s scattered things, get him to admit he’s concussed, wait for him to finish throwing up after trying to prove he _wasn’t_ concussed, and hoist him up onto Roach so they can reach somewhere better to set up camp. At the first sway of Roach’s movement, Jaskier turns slightly green, and grips the pommel hard. It does keep him quiet though. 

Geralt finds a decent clearing in the woods near a stream, and helps Jaskier down from the saddle. Jaskier smiles at him when his feet touch the ground, and promptly collapses. Geralt ends up sitting him against a tree and then makes camp, shifting Jaskier to his bedroll once he has it laid out. He has bread and cured meat in his pack from the village with the nekker problem, enough to share. It’ll be fine to rest here for a night or two if need be. 

Jaskier doesn’t look much different. His clothes are better quality, his hairstyle isn’t quite how Geralt remembers it, and he might have a few more laughter lines around his eyes, but aside from that it’s like barely a day has passed. Geralt doesn’t know whether that’s a good thing or not. He slips into meditation easily, lulled by Jaskier’s soft snuffling snores, and doesn’t come out of it till daybreak. 

When he opens his eyes, Jaskier’s watching him. “Morning,” he says. 

“Morning,” Jaskier says back. “I was trying to decide if I was dreaming. But I don’t think I would have dreamed the smell.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says, and sees a smile break over Jaskier’s face, sparkling in his eyes. 

“It is you!” he says, happily. “How are you, Geralt?”

Geralt makes a neutral face, as if to say, _not bad_. 

“Well I’ve had a great few years,” Jaskier says, rubbing at the knot at the back of his head. “Went off to the Countess De Stael, as I told you, stayed there for the winter, got chucked out – long story – bounced from court to court for a while, spent a season teaching some appallingly obnoxious children in a duchy in Temeria, stopped over in Cintra where I heard a _very_ interesting tale about you and a wedding, told Mousesack how his spell went – he says hello – passed a year or so working my way through all the wineries in Toussaint, and then wandered up north again. And now here we are. Just like old times. Me getting in trouble, you getting me out of it.” 

There are lots of questions Geralt could ask. Like what Mousesack thought when he heard Jaskier’s story of his travels, or whether Jaskier met the princess, or even which wine variety Jaskier now favours. But he doesn’t say anything. 

“I missed you, by the way,” Jaskier says, offhand, like it’s meaningless. “Rather a lot, to begin with. Even wrote a few more songs that were entirely fictional, but I could feel you glaring at me for inaccuracy, so I stopped. I feel like we didn’t part as well as we might have. I was jealous, you see. Petty of me, I suppose, but I couldn’t help it.” 

Geralt stares at him. Jaskier blushes, slightly. 

“Did you ever see the witch again? She was terrifying. Hot, but terrifying. I would have, obviously, but I’d have been a bit afraid she’d turn me to dust after. Oh gods, I’m talking too much,” he says. “For fuck’s sake, Geralt, tell me to shut up, or I’ll just keep going.” 

“You always talk too much,” Geralt says. And then, unable to stop himself, “I thought you wanted to leave. Once the spell broke. It seemed like you couldn’t wait to go.” 

“Oh,” Jaskier says. His eyes are very wide. He reaches out a hand to Geralt. “Oh, my dear, no. I just didn’t want to be sent away.” 

“But,” says Geralt, and finds there are no words following. 

Jaskier climbs out of his bedroll, shuffles over to Geralt and kneels down in front of him. Geralt can’t stop himself looking. This close, there are no expressions to read in Jaskier’s eyes, just blue like water, deep and endless. “I am very good at running,” Jaskier says. “It’s saved my life more than once. I ran because I knew if I didn’t you’d break my heart.” 

Geralt lifts a hand to his cheek, brushes a rough thumb over it. When he first saw Jaskier, he had two black eyes, but he was beautiful then and he’s beautiful now and he’s never once been afraid. Geralt is not meant to ever be afraid, but he is, he is. 

“Don’t run,” Geralt says, nonsensically, and then they’re kissing, and he doesn’t even know which of them moved first. 

“Fuck,” Jaskier says, “if I’d known I could do this I’d have done it years ago. Don’t kill me. Lie down.” 

Geralt lies down, and Jaskier fumbles enthusiastically at his breeches and succeeds in freeing his cock. He celebrates the victory by going down on him, sucking and licking, and it doesn’t take long before Geralt comes, his mouth shaping a soundless cry into the forest that he feels vaguely ashamed of. It’s been a long time. 

He can’t allow Jaskier to win, though, so he tips the bard over, pushing him onto his back to return the favour. Jaskier is lean and trembling under his hands, arching against his grip, and yet he breaks so beautifully when Geralt takes him into his mouth, crying out nonsense and shaking and keening and coming and it’s everything Geralt dreamed of, all those months ago.

They lie together, trembling. 

Jaskier says, “this isn’t how I pictured today going, to be honest.” 

Geralt says nothing. 

“I thought I’d get my throat slit by an unwashed moron, and then there you were to rescue me and I thought, well, yet another thing I owe to my witcher. I definitely didn’t think you’d let me show my gratitude...” 

Geralt continues to say nothing, though he feels a bit bad about it this time. 

“I know it’s not destiny, I’m not that stupid,” Jaskier says, “but I did miss you, and I’ve wanted to fuck you since about five minutes after we met, and I’d do it again if you fancy it.” 

Geralt shifts so he can curl a fist into Jaskier’s hair and bring his face closer to kiss him. 

“All right,” Jaskier says after a while, licking his lips and looking wholly delighted, “this seems like a good start, how do you feel about travelling together for a stretch so we can, um, explore it further?”

Geralt nods against Jaskier’s neck, and Jaskier hums a vaguely triumphant note, and so they come to an agreement.


	7. Oxenfurt

When you’ve been alive for more than a century, it’s hard never to retrace your steps, though there are certain places Geralt tries to avoid, including many of the major cities. Too many people, too much noise, too few monsters. Or rather, enough men and mages to take care of most monsters without needing to hire a witcher. 

He’s never particularly cared for Oxenfurt, which is a small enough town, but overly full of academics. Every time he goes there, a veritable horde of professors line up to ask questions about mutagens, monsters and his memories. They are always deeply disappointed that, while Geralt might have been in Kaedwen during some war of somebody’s succession, he wasn’t taking notes. His perspective on major events of history has always been ground-level; if he did find himself on a battlefield, for example, he was usually occupied with a) ghouls and b) survival, not which side was winning or why. 

So Oxenfurt is tiring. All those people expecting him to talk, and then having to deal with their disappointment at what he says. However, it also has some of the best craftsmen in the north, being the kind of place that rewards experimentation and the pursuit and sharing of knowledge. His silver sword needs replating, as it does every decade or two. He’s been going to the same silversmithy for the last fifty years, and sees no reason to change. Besides, he thinks Jaskier might like it. 

Geralt is getting a fair amount of insight into what Jaskier likes. To be teased, to have his hair pulled, to fuck Geralt, to be fucked, slowly, till he’s almost crying as he comes… It’s an education, and Geralt has been a willing and dedicated pupil in the months since they met in Ghelibol. 

To his surprise, though, Jaskier doesn’t greet the news with much enthusiasm when Geralt explains why they’re taking the path heading south and west. 

“Does it have to be Oxenfurt?” he asks. “I’m sick of that place.” 

“I thought you loved it,” Geralt says. “You’re always going on about it.” 

“I list my _credentials_ ,” Jaskier says sniffily. “And occasionally mention, fondly, some people I knew there when I was learning my craft. That’s not the same thing as wanting to return every five minutes or insisting the happiest days of my life were spent in a drab lecture theatre.” 

“When were the happiest days of your life then?” Geralt asks, amused. 

“I hope they’re all in the future,” Jaskier says, thoughtfully. “What good is anything if it can’t be improved upon? Though that day a couple of weeks back when you spent all morning going down on me, on and off, I was very happy then.” 

Geralt swallows at the memory. He’d fastened Jaskier’s hands to the bed’s headboard, and then taken his time: bringing Jaskier to the brink of orgasm and then pulling away, letting him beg and whine while Geralt leaned above him, tracing a finger around his nipple, not quite touching. A good day indeed. 

“The silversmith I trust is in Oxenfurt,” Geralt says, before he can do anything foolish like push Jaskier up against a tree by the side of the path and suck a bruise into the skin between his collarbone and neck. 

“It’s just…” Jaskier seems briefly at a loss for words, a miracle Geralt has never before witnessed. “I was so young, and I don’t much like the person I was back then. I don’t like to be reminded of him.” 

“You’re still young. And you can’t have been that bad.” 

“I’m not good now,” Jaskier says, and there’s a raw expression that is new, too. “I lie, and I cheat, and I steal.” He blinks at Geralt, some kind of plea in his eyes. “But never with you.” 

It feels like a confession, but Geralt doesn’t know what kind. Jaskier still has that untrustworthy charisma, which has only deepened with time. He uses it to strike a good bargain, charm his way into a marriage bed, exaggerate till he gets what he wants. But he’s never harmed anyone that Geralt can tell; the only person he places in danger is himself. 

“I know,” Geralt says, since Jaskier seems to be waiting for something. And then, “you don’t have to come, if you don’t want to.” He tries to keep the words neutral. They haven’t really talked about this new thing between them, and every day he expects Jaskier to come to his senses and leave, and every day Jaskier seems content to stay. 

Jaskier smiles, though it’s a little shaky. “Oh, don’t be such a martyr, Geralt,” he says. “Haven’t I made it clear by now? No one’s forcing me to follow you, and you won’t be rid of me that easily. To Oxenfurt we shall go!” He plays a dramatic chord on the lute and strikes a pose. Geralt shakes his head at his foolishness, and carries on down the road. 

When Geralt wakes on the morning they’re due to reach the city, Jaskier is already dressed in a drab grey outfit like nothing else he owns, and his lute case is tied to Roach, half buried under a saddle bag. 

Geralt decides not to say anything. Jaskier’s hiding from something, clearly – Geralt wouldn’t put it past him to owe half of Oxenfurt money – but he’s not a child to be protected and it’s none of Geralt’s business anyway. 

Still, he’s careful to choose a tavern off the main drag, a dingy one that suits his own lack of coin and disinclination for company. If it’s rough enough not to attract the university crowd, so much the better. He leaves Jaskier in the room, and heads out to find his silversmith. 

When he returns some hours later, he can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat from out on the street, fast and excitable. Geralt walks into the pub cautiously, not sure what to expect; what he sees is Jaskier tucked away in a corner, wearing Geralt’s hooded cloak, hissing to a lovely young woman in a bright red dress. 

They’re whispering too low for even his ears to make out, so he turns to the bar for a drink instead. It’s Jaskier’s affair. He won’t eavesdrop. 

Yet as he hands over coin for his ale, some quirk of the air and lull in the general conversation combines and he hears the woman say, “—should never have come back here, Julek—”

And Jaskier says, “I know, I know, but—” He breaks off with a gasp and then calls out, louder, “Geralt! I didn’t see you there. Come join us.” 

Geralt can’t figure out how not to, so he goes. Up close, Jaskier looks even worse than this morning. The dark clothes are doing him no favours, highlighting the pallor of his skin, the shadows under his eyes. Still, his voice remains light. “Geralt, this is Priscilla, Priss, a fellow bard. Priss, this is the witcher of my songs, Geralt of Rivia.” 

Priscilla smiles at him. She’s striking rather than pretty, characterful. Around the same age as Jaskier, he thinks, perhaps a year or two older. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says. “I’ve heard good things. Someone has to keep this idiot in check.” 

“Hey!” Jaskier says, swiping a half-hearted hand at her arm. 

“I try.” Geralt smiles briefly at them both, and sits down. “How do you two know each other?” 

He’s not imagining the tension in the silence that follows. 

She speaks first. “Oh, I taught Julian all he knows, didn’t I, kid? He was always hanging around in the taverns after some real experience so we took him under our wing, showed him what being a bard was all about.” 

“I owe my career to Priss,” Jaskier says, softly. It’s not like him to be so modest, but he’s gazing at her with such fondness that Geralt knows it must be true. 

“Well you had the talent,” Priss says fondly back. “I couldn’t let it go to waste.” 

Jaskier goes still, and Priscilla winces, and Geralt downs his ale. There’s a story here he doesn’t know, and he’s not going to sit and watch them talk around it. He doesn’t want to stop Jaskier catching up properly with his friend. 

And if there’s a part of him vaguely put out that he doesn’t know what’s going on, it’s a fairly hypocritical part. It’s not like he’s told Jaskier everything he’d like to know about the Trials, or his Child Surprise, or – well, it’s a long list. 

But perhaps, if it weren’t for that faint feeling of jealousy, he would have stayed rather than spend the rest of the day tending to Roach and bartering for a few other supplies. And if he’d stayed, he wouldn’t be standing where he is now, in the doorway of their room, looking at the broken furniture and the blood spatter and no Jaskier to be seen. 

The first thing he does is check that the lute is gone, that Jaskier didn’t hide it, that it’s not been overlooked under the overturned chairs and table. 

The second thing is to smell the blood. It is Jaskier’s, he’s got enough experience to know that by now. But there’s not much. He wasn’t that badly hurt, when whoever it was came to find him. 

The third thing he does is go downstairs and lift the innkeeper against the wall, bodily, one hand fisted in the man’s shirt to keep him still, the other holding his steel dagger pricked to his belly in warning. 

“Who took the bard,” Geralt asks, considering his tone very patient, in the circumstances. 

“I’m sorry, master witcher!” the innkeeper wails, writhing in Geralt’s hold. “I had no choice but to let them in, not if I valued my own skin!” 

“I’m not angry,” Geralt lies. “Just tell me.” 

“It was Artem himself!” the innkeeper says. He stinks of fear, new sweat overlaying old. He was scared before Geralt got here. His eyes are bloodshot. “You don’t say no to Artem!”

Geralt nods in agreement, such is the level of surety in the man’s voice. Then he catches himself. “Who’s Artem?” 

The innkeeper looks deeply bewildered, as if anyone could fail to know. He opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted. 

“Artem’s the piece-of-shit gangster Julek ran away from ten years ago,” Priscilla says behind him. 

Geralt turns, letting the innkeeper fall. Priscilla’s chest is heaving, her cheeks flushed. She ran here, he realises, coming with a warning. Too late. “Show me where I can find him,” Geralt says, settling his sword on his back, and Priscilla swallows and nods. 

They walk through the busy streets of Oxenfurt, jostled by hordes of students and merchants and city dwellers. Geralt is trying to follow what Priscilla is telling him, but it’s only half a story, in bits and pieces, as if she thinks he already knows the other half. 

“Of course I’m scared of him too,” she says. “He has the whole city sewn up, if you want anything doing you have to clear it with him. Permits, protection. The university pretends it’s above it all, but the professors pay too, for ingredients or favours. He’s at the top of the shitheap now, but it wasn’t always like that. He used to be small time. Thefts for hire, brothels, that kind of thing. He still does all that of course, but it’s someone else’s job now, he just gets his share of the take.” 

Then, as they round a corner, heading steadily away from the campus and the town centre: “it was true, what we said earlier. I did teach him, me and a few others. He was so desperate to learn, you see, we could tell he had a gift for it. And we didn’t mind the dirt and the smell, it’s not like travelling bards are fussy about that kind of thing. He learned so quickly, I’ve never seen anyone pick things up so fast. Not just the lute. The way we spoke, acted. You could see him working out who he wanted to be. Except it wasn’t fake, not really. It was like watching someone figure out who they already were.” 

They’re heading into the poorer part of town, the streets pressing closer together, the smell of middens and tanneries rising. Priscilla says, “we none of us knew what happened. He just vanished one winter. And then two years later I passed through Novigrad and found him there, Jaskier the bard, like he’d never been anyone else. I didn’t ask what made him run, and he didn’t tell me, but we both knew he shouldn’t come back. Artem doesn’t like losing things. Or people.” She is pale, despite their hurrying, a tremor in her voice. Geralt understands what she’s saying – that Jaskier wasn’t always Jaskier, that the bright courtly noble-turned-bard is an act – but he can’t quite believe it. 

_I lie and I cheat and I steal_ , Jaskier told him, a few days back. Is this what he meant? That he lies with every part of himself? 

_No_ , Geralt tells himself. He knows Jaskier. Has seen him happy and sad, hurting and healthy, in the throes of orgasm and the depths of misery. He _knows_ him. Jaskier is himself, and if he wasn’t always, that doesn’t matter. Geralt wasn’t always Geralt. He knows a thing or two about transformation, chosen or not, and isn’t it more meaningful if it was a choice? 

“He lives down there,” Priscilla says, taking a step back. “He didn’t want to leave his people. Not that most folk round here _want_ to be his people, they just don’t have the option. This is his fiefdom. He could afford to live anywhere he wants, but he likes having the power of a king…” 

The houses are mean, rickety wooden boards with cloth-stuffed walls, roofs of rotten thatch. But at the end of the street Geralt sees a fine stone house, high-walled, with clean swept paths and gardens. A palace set in a slum. He must think himself a fine man, this Artem, to live in luxury while those around him starve. 

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Geralt says. “You don’t need to come any further.” 

“Never fear,” Priscilla says. “I’m too much of a coward to make Artem my enemy. But I wish you luck, Geralt of Rivia. I hope Julek didn’t make a mistake following you back here. I hope he gets away with it again.” 

She turns and walks swiftly away, and Geralt stares after her, feeling put upon. It’s not like he forced Jaskier to come with him. But then again, he didn’t really express any curiosity about why Jaskier didn’t want to. It’s not like he’s ever asked Jaskier anything about his past. 

_You didn’t want to get too close_ , Geralt thinks, and see where that got you. 

He shifts his shoulders, feels the reassuring weight of his sword. He’s rescued his bard many times. What’s one more? 

Artem’s compound is not particularly well defended. There are guards at the gate, but Geralt doesn’t enter through the gate. He follows the walls around, down an alleyway that takes him towards the back of the house, where he finds a tree close enough to climb up and over. There’s no one around. Presumably the man thinks no one would dream of attacking him. Geralt finds that level of arrogance tiresome but it’s working in his favour right now.

As he approaches the house from behind, treading over neat lush grass, he’s distracted by noises. A thump, a whimper, the rumble of a voice. It’s coming from what looks like a barn or a stable off to the left. He turns towards it, careful to keep out of sight of the open entrance, and presses himself against one of the walls, where a warped wooden slat gapes enough for him to see through. 

The person speaking is out of view. The words are hard to make out, a soft murmur, deep and low. It’s almost soothing, but there’s an undercurrent that sets Geralt’s teeth on edge. Something biting. The man, he thinks, is very angry, but his anger is very tightly controlled. 

A shadow crosses the ground, followed by the person casting it; his back blocks Geralt’s line of sight. “Nothing to say for yourself?” he asks. 

There’s a silence, and then an incoherent, muffled sound that still comes across clearly as an insult. 

“I see your manners haven’t improved,” the man says. He takes a step forward and to the side; aims a kick. There’s a dull thud and a pained inhalation of breath. 

In profile, the man is nothing to look at. He’s not aging well, red veins splintering fleshy cheeks and nose, the result of too much wine and rich food. Pale blue eyes sit in pouched skin. And yet he’s far from harmless. There’s a cruel twist to his features, a strength in his body, that makes Geralt wary. He moves away from his vantage point and unsheathes his steel sword, treading softly to the open entrance to get a better look. 

The space is bare; at the back, empty stalls seem to be storing hay. Aside from the speaker, there are two burly looking men, one with a club, one with a dagger thrust in his belt, and on the floor, a crumpled pile of cloth that twitches and groans and pushes itself back up. 

Jaskier’s mouth is gagged, his hands bound in front of him. One eye is swollen shut and there’s blood on his chin. His clothes are torn and dusty and he moves like every inch of him hurts. When the man – Artem, Geralt assumes – steps over and kicks him hard in the side, sending him sprawling again, Geralt understands why. 

There are probably other men within calling distance but right now it’s three against one and he’s not worried by those odds. He clears his throat, and walks inside. 

Artem looks up at him. His faded eyes widen, and he nods at the other men, who move towards Geralt. He ducks the club that the first one attempts to wield, landing a punch into the man’s stomach and, after he folds over in pain, twists his sword round to bring the pommel down on his head, leaving him unconscious in the straw. 

The second man has fumbled the dagger out from his belt by now but his swipe is wide and easy to avoid; Geralt kicks him in the balls, which makes him drop the blade, and grabs him by the back of his shirt, running him into one of the doorposts and then letting him fall. 

Jaskier has managed to push himself back onto his knees. He gives Geralt a weak smile, which makes his lip bleed. 

Artem hasn’t moved. “You must be the witcher,” he says. He looks disdainfully at the inert bodies of his two men. “Don’t suppose I could hire you for a bodyguard?” 

Geralt almost laughs. “No.” He tries to make eye contact with Jaskier, but he’s turned his head away, staring at the floor. 

“So you’ve come to bargain? Are you going to tell me I have something that belongs to you? I’m sorry to say Julian here belongs to _me_. Always has, always will. No matter what he likes to pretend.” He’s relaxed, his hands open by his side, entirely unafraid. He seems to find the whole situation vaguely amusing. But there’s that rage, still, flushing his face, swirling under the breeziness of his words. 

Jaskier closes his one open eye. Geralt says, “he doesn’t belong to anyone but himself.”

“ _He_ isn’t anything,” Artem says. He goes to stand behind Jaskier, resting his hands proprietorially on the bard’s shoulders. After a moment, he reaches up and unties the gag. “What’s he calling himself these days? Is it still the viscount de Lettenhove? He always liked that one.” He shakes Jaskier, playfully. “Tell him where Lettenhove is, Julian.”

“Used to be in the south of Redania,” Jaskier says, softly. He’s looking up at Geralt now, something raw and pleading in his eyes. He seems very young. “The line died out a century ago, it doesn’t exist as a separate holding anymore. Geralt, I’m sorry.” 

“Hey!” Artem says. He fists his hand into Jaskier’s hair and pulls sharply back, exposing his throat; Jaskier grits his teeth and stays silent. “If you’re going to apologise to anyone, you should apologise to _me_. You owe _me_. You stole from _me_.” He’s not hiding his anger anymore. It burns through his voice. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says. He’s trembling; he smells terrified. Geralt has never known him this cowed, this afraid. But then, he realises, he doesn’t know the man in front of him. This is Julian, not Jaskier: a child, unfree. 

But Geralt doesn’t need to be frightened. He doesn’t need to buy into the myth of Artem, the man who has Oxenfurt under his thumb. Artem’s power lies in people believing him powerful, and what does Geralt care about that? 

He steps forward, and flourishes his sword through the air till the tip of it rests on Artem’s breast, above his heart, digging in a little. It was an unnecessarily dramatic move – Vesemir wouldn’t approve – but it’s worth it to watch the man’s certainty crumble, just a little. He lets Jaskier go, and the bard collapses into a heap between their feet. 

“You won’t kill me,” Artem says. He mostly believes it, too; he cannot conceive of a world where someone would risk killing him. 

“You’ve done your job too well, Jaskier,” Geralt says, putting a little more weight behind his sword for the fun of watching Artem blink. “People forgot too quickly. Don’t you know who I am, you inconsequential sack of shit? I’m the Butcher of Blaviken.” 

Artem’s face goes pale. He takes a faltering pace back, and in that moment, Geralt knows he’s won. He steps forward, thrusting the sword deeper, drawing blood. 

From below, Jaskier says his name. It’s quiet, barely a shaped breath, but enough to make Geralt pause. He could kill Artem, and the world would be better for it; it would also make a mockery of Jaskier’s work. He bares his teeth instead. “We’re going to leave, now, and you won’t come after us.” 

Artem swallows, nods. He’s a bully, and like all bullies, fundamentally cowardly once he’s ceased to trust in his own power. “Yes,” he says, puffing himself up again. “Yes. Get out of my city. If I see you here tomorrow I’ll kill you both.” 

Geralt would like to see him try. But Artem’s got men enough that he _could_ try, and he doesn’t want to leave a bloodbath behind him again, not if he can help it. He nods, and drops his sword. 

“Jaskier,” he says, looking down. “Can you walk?” 

“My lute,” Jaskier says, rather than answering. He turns to look around the barn, and Geralt follows his gaze, sees the case leaning up against a wall. He moves to fetch it, and while his back is turned hears a shift, the sound of wood meeting flesh, a crack, a scream. 

When he spins round Artem is standing above Jaskier, breathing heavily, club clutched in one hand. “Something to remember me by,” he spits. 

Geralt growls and goes to rush forward but Jaskier uncurls from bending over his clearly broken left arm and says, unsteadily, “Geralt. Please don’t… let’s just go.” 

For a moment he wavers, anger running hot through him, but Jaskier meets his eyes and he looks so young, still, so desperate, that Geralt just wants to get him out of there. He sheathes his sword, slings Jaskier’s lute case over his back, and bends down to untie the rope binding Jaskier’s hands and then pick him up. They’ll move faster that way. He tries to avoid jostling Jaskier’s arm, but it must hurt like hell all the same; Jaskier turns his face into Geralt’s neck and after a moment he feels tears damp against his skin. Pain, maybe, or relief. 

“You’ll regret this,” Artem says. “He’s nothing but a thief and a liar.” 

Geralt looks him in the eye. “To you,” he says. “But not to me.” 

He turns to go. The guards don’t stop him. They stand, uncertain, waiting for an order that doesn’t come, and Geralt simply walks out of the gate and down the street. After a minute or two he hears Artem shout, “remember, witcher! I _will_ kill you if you’re here in the morning!” 

Geralt supposes the man has to try and reclaim his authority. He grunts and keeps moving. 

Three streets later, Priscilla peels away from a doorway and swears when she sees them. By then, Geralt’s pretty sure Jaskier’s passed out; his head lolls against Geralt’s chest. He says, “you know a healer?” and Priscilla nods, and shows him the way. 

Once Jaskier’s arm is splinted, and Geralt’s haggled for a salve for his bruises and something for the pain, he leaves him with Priscilla for company and goes to fetch Roach and the rest of their things, walking out from the inn without paying. The innkeeper doesn’t try to stop him, which is just as well; Geralt’s in the mood for a fight. 

Back at the healer’s shop, he finds Jaskier lying with his head in Priscilla’s lap. She’s singing, something gentle and sweet, and stroking softly through his hair. She doesn’t stop when she sees Geralt, her eyes defiant, and he merely dips his head at her and waits for the song to end. 

“We have to go, and I need someone to collect my sword tomorrow,” he tells her. “Will you bring it to me if we wait on the road to the north?” 

“I will,” she says. He gives her the second half of the money, and scribbles a note for the silversmith authorising her to act on his behalf. She looks at it, then at him. “That’s a lot of trust to place in someone you don’t know.” 

“Jaskier trusts you,” Geralt says simply. “And I trust him.” 

He hears Jaskier exhale, and watches as he sits up slowly, his face creased in pain. “Geralt, I’m sorry,” he says again, and Geralt doesn’t know how to answer. He just shakes his head. 

“Are you ready to go?”

Jaskier nods. The red around his swollen shut eye is deepening into black. “I told you I hate this fucking city,” he says. 

_You told me a lot of things_ , Geralt thinks but doesn’t say. He holds out a hand instead, and Jaskier takes it. 

The walk out of Oxenfurt is slow, punctuated by gasps and pauses, but Jaskier seems determined to do it on his own two feet, and Geralt doesn’t want to deny him that. There are men watching them go, heavyset, holding batons and swords and crossbows, and he quickens the pace as much as he dares. He doesn’t think Artem would risk attacking them – it’d be too shaming if his men lost – but he isn’t entirely certain. 

Jaskier walks like he’s lost in a dream, or a memory; he doesn’t speak, but emotions roll across his face in waves. Fear, grief, hatred, sorrow. Geralt’s caught glimpses of them over the years, now he thinks on it, but never knew how deep the wound went. He’s remembering other moments, careful phrasing. The way Jaskier talked about learning his craft but never said that he studied at the university. How he introduced himself to Geralt, saying he’d started out as Julian Pankratz, not that that was his name. How he talked of fights between students and townies but never said which side he was on. That day after the wraith, when his noble accent slipped… 

He can’t think of a time when Jaskier lied to him outright. He was too smart to need to. He spun a story, and let people interpret it the way he wanted them to. He wrote his life like one of his songs. Perhaps Geralt ought to be annoyed, but Jaskier’s songs are always intended for good: even when they’re bullshit, he still means them. They’re still real. 

They go far enough for Geralt to feel that Artem wouldn’t bother to pursue them and then he brings them to a stop, setting Roach’s saddle on flat earth under some trees and laying out Jaskier’s bedroll against it so that he can rest upright. Jaskier sits down grudgingly, and watches while Geralt starts a fire and goes about his usual camping tasks in the usual, correct order. 

Eventually he says, “aren’t you going to ask me _anything_?”

“Hmmm,” Geralt says. In the firelight, Jaskier’s face is flushed. He’s angry, spoiling for a fight that Geralt doesn’t intend to give him. “It’s not my business. But if you want to talk I’ll listen.” 

Jaskier swallows. “I just,” he says. “I know I talk all the time, I know you want me to shut up half the time. But I’ve never told anyone about this.” 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Geralt says. “How bad’s the pain? You should take something.” He goes to search his pack and Jaskier growls and says,

“Fucking hell, Geralt, would you stop being so nice to me? You should be furious. I lied to you. I lied to you this whole time.” 

“I’m not angry,” Geralt says. He goes to kneel down by Jaskier, lifts his chin up so he can meet him eye to eye. “I know who you are. I don’t care about where you came from or what your name used to be. It doesn’t make any difference to me.” 

“Gods,” Jaskier says, choked. “Can you just tell me I’m an idiot? Yell at me? _Something?_ ” 

Geralt pauses. He needs to get this right, and it’s entirely new ground. He feels like he’s on a frozen lake and one misstep would mean disaster. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m not going to leave and I’m not going to make you leave.” He moves his hand up to cup Jaskier’s cheek. “You don’t deserve to be treated badly. You never did.” 

“Oh fuck you,” Jaskier says. His eyes gleam with tears but he’s holding them back, refusing to let them spill. 

Wordlessly, Geralt helps Jaskier off with his clothes so he can wind bandages around his cracked ribs, spread salve over the worst of the bruises. Jaskier’s splinted arm is held in a sling; he winces whenever he has to move it, and fear fractures his gaze whenever he looks down. 

“It’ll heal clean,” Geralt tells him. 

“You don’t know that,” Jaskier spits back. 

“It will,” Geralt says, because it has to; he won’t allow Artem to steal music from Jaskier too. Jaskier nods, shakily, and then he starts to cry. Geralt holds him, feeling the heat rise from his bruised body, and waits for the storm to pass. 

Later, when the fire has almost burned down and he thinks Jaskier’s asleep, the bard starts talking. 

He says, “I once bet you the story of how I got my lute.” 

“You did,” Geralt agrees. 

“I stole it, obviously,” Jaskier says. He shifts so he’s leaning back against Geralt’s chest, broken arm held lightly in front of him. “I never knew my parents. I was raised at a temple school, where they beat my letters into me but failed to teach me manners. There was a choir, though, and when I wasn’t in trouble they let me sing. That was the only thing I liked.

“I ran away when I was thirteen. Lived on the streets a while, then fell in with Artem’s crew. He wasn’t so well established, then. There were lots of fights, other gangs, you know. But we were better organised, it was clear he was going to win out in the end.” It’s bald, a litany of facts, with none of the usual flourishes that Jaskier adds to his stories. Geralt takes his good hand and squeezes it to show he’s paying attention. 

“I wasn’t much of a fighter but I was a really good thief. Good practise for sneaking in and out of noble ladies’ bedrooms, I suppose. Me and my friend Essi used to work as a team. She’d distract people and I’d pick their pockets. Or she’d sneak in somewhere and then let me in so we could clean the place out. She liked music too. When we had coin we’d go to the taverns and listen to the bards and the students. That’s where I met Priss.” 

“She said,” Geralt tells him. 

“We were going to leave. We were saving up, the two of us. I knew we’d have to go a long way from Oxenfurt. Artem was always possessive. Once you were his, there wasn’t any way out. If you tried, he’d hurt you. If you tried again he’d kill you. But Essi wasn’t scared of him. She had this whole future planned where we’d travel the Continent and make money from music and never stay in one place long enough to be caught.” Jaskier pauses. “I loved her,” he says. “In case that’s not clear.” 

Geralt holds him a little tighter, because he doesn’t know how this ends but he knows it’s bad. 

“Artem got a commission from an Oxenfurt student, a minor noble called Valdo Marx. Total arsehole. Not that talented but thought he was. He hung around at the taverns too, he knew who Essi and I were, I think he knew we were better than him. Maybe that was why he paid Artem to have us steal Filavandrel’s lute. It was in the bardic college’s archive, gathering dust, and he wanted it. I did too, when I nicked it. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. But you didn’t cheat Artem, not if you valued your life. So we delivered it to Valdo and his friends at their rooms, and he poured us a drink, and— And.” He stops, breathes in, wet and ragged. 

“Jaskier, you don’t—” Geralt says, but Jaskier pats his hand, and continues. 

“I don’t really remember what happened after that,” he says. “I woke up, and it was dark, and we were outside, and it had started snowing. I was black and blue all over. Essi was dead.” 

He stops again, and Geralt closes his eyes, pictures it. Jaskier, still a teenager, thin and hurt, lying in the frost, with no one who might have helped him. 

“I don’t know what they did to her,” Jaskier says, “but they’d dumped her in the pond in front of their rooms. It was already freezing over. I could just see her face through the ice. She looked so cold…” 

Geralt remembers, as if it was yesterday, Jaskier in the throes of fever, saying _people die in the winter and no one finds them till spring_. 

“I left her there,” Jaskier says dully. “I wanted to kill Valdo but I was too much of a coward. I just stole the lute back, and took all the coin we’d saved, and then I ran. And after a while I became someone else.” 

“You became you,” Geralt tells him. “You’re not a lie, Jaskier, any more than I am because I went through the Trials.” He would like to have better words, but he only has the truth. 

Jaskier presses a trembling kiss to his hand. “You keep saving my life,” he says, a little bitter. 

“I wish I could have done it back then,” Geralt admits. He could say more: that he wishes he could save everyone from cold and hunger and the cruelty of fellow humans, but he’s only one man and mostly it’s easier to close himself off, try to pretend he doesn’t care. Jaskier keeps wriggling through all his defences. 

“Yeah, me too,” Jaskier says, and Geralt feels the curve of his smile against his shoulder. “But you’ve made up for it since. I owe you a dozen times over.” 

“No, you don’t,” Geralt says. “It’s not about that. It’s not… a favour. Anyway, I was the one who made you go to Oxenfurt.” 

“I could have said no,” Jaskier says. “But I didn’t want to have to explain. Silly, really.” He sounds more like himself, humour creeping back into his voice. 

In the morning, Geralt knows, Priscilla will find them, bringing Geralt’s silver sword, and Jaskier will return fully to the person he’s always been, and they won’t speak about this again. But Geralt will remember. How Jaskier clung to him, trusting and open, and how little Geralt deserves it. He doesn’t want to be like Artem, to have Jaskier think he owes him a debt. He just wants to keep Jaskier safe, for as long as he can, any way that he can.


	8. The Dragon Mountains

The inn is crowded and smelly, and Geralt doesn’t trust the old man Borch further than he could throw him, and he figures he could throw him pretty far. He’s all set to refuse the commission, when he feels the tug in his gut and looks up and sees Yennefer. 

Geralt’s mostly managed to keep Yennefer and Jaskier apart. He knows Jaskier distrusts her; the glares he gives Geralt when he returns from one of their liaisons is testament to that. The bard’s not jealous, exactly; he has his own dalliances, and he’s not a hypocrite. But he clearly thinks Yennefer’s up to no good, that she doesn’t deserve Geralt (which Geralt finds both touching and bizarre) and that their relationship is deeply suspect. 

He’s not wrong, of course, but Geralt has gone this far without telling Yennefer about his wish and though he probably should, he won’t risk it. He knows his feelings weren’t created by the wish, just as his and Jaskier’s feelings weren’t brought to life by Mousesack’s spell. But he’s not entirely sure Yennefer would agree. 

Maybe he’s just resigned to destiny pushing him around by now. It brought him Jaskier, and Jaskier brought him Yennefer, and maybe he should just… go with it. 

So he agrees to go hunt a dragon. 

The first evening, he lays his bedroll down next to Jaskier, who looks a little surprised but mostly pleased. “I thought you’d be lying in luxury with your witch.” 

Geralt shrugs. “She’s got Sir Eyck.” 

“Geralt, are you jealous?” Jaskier asks, delighted. “You are, aren’t you. How very human of you, Mister I-have-no-feelings.” It’s an old joke; he knows Jaskier doesn’t believe it, that he never really did. “You don’t have to worry. He’s nothing compared to you. Everyone can see that.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says. “Anyway. It’s a nice night.” 

It is. A little cold, now the sun’s gone in, but the stars wheel overhead in all their glory. To Geralt, they’re a map; to Jaskier, a book full of beasts and heroes. He tells Geralt the stories, sometimes. 

“Well, I’m glad,” Jaskier says. “If I have to share I appreciate that you split your time fairly.” His face is slightly mischievous. “You didn’t realise, did you? Darling witcher, you’re completely scrupulous about it. Almost to the minute.” 

He’s not wrong, Geralt realises, looking back over a day spent shuttling back and forth. He feels a little embarrassed, but then Jaskier winds an arm over his chest and pulls him close. Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, and lets the familiar scent of Jaskier’s skin lull him to rest. 

The second day turns bad. He sits with Jaskier watching the sunset and Jaskier tries to comfort him, tries to persuade him to leave, and all he can think is that it could have been any one of them. He could have watched Jaskier or Yennefer plunge to their deaths, all because they followed him. And Yennefer doesn’t even know why she’s doing it. 

He goes to her tent meaning to confess but when he sees her – when she speaks to him of her dreams, offering up parts of herself he knows she’s told no one – he cannot bear to risk shattering the bond between them. 

The next morning, he leaves Jaskier sleeping, safe and far from trouble, and races with Yennefer to the cave, and everything goes utterly to shit. 

He’s standing in the ruins of everything he felt for her, the tug in his gut howling as she portals away. He’s lost her. He gave her all that he is, and she rejected it; told him it was false, that they were false. 

Maybe she’s right. Geralt isn’t supposed to need anyone, after all. Maybe everything he’s ever felt for anyone was just magic and manipulation. Maybe all he does is ruin people. 

And then Jaskier arrives, sulky at being abandoned and Geralt thinks: _I can fix this_. 

“What a day!” Jaskier says. “What’d I miss?”

Geralt told him, once, that he’d never leave and never make him leave. He let Jaskier follow him into danger, let him get hurt over and over and _over_ and told himself it was fine because he’d always be there to save him. 

He can save him now for good. 

He says, “I left you behind for a reason. Why is it whenever I turn around, there you are, in my way? Why can’t you look after yourself for one godsdamn minute?”

He sees Jaskier shrink. “That’s not fair,” he says. 

“Fair,” Geralt says, and laughs. It sounds like bones rattling in this throat. “Is it fair that I have to spend all my time getting you out of trouble because you don’t know when to take a hint?” 

Jaskier swallows. The blood is draining from his face and his heartbeat is pounding but he’s still standing there. “Geralt,” he says, “I don’t know what happened, but please—”

“You don’t know anything,” Geralt spits at him. “You don’t even know who you _are_. I’m done letting you boost your ego, your made-up name, with my hard work.” 

Jaskier blinks. His whole body shudders, like he’s been hit. “Well,” he says. “Right. That’s clear, then.” He tries to smile, an awful bloodless thing. “I’ll see you around, Geralt.” 

And then he turns around and walks away. Safe at last. 

Geralt feels hollow. Yennefer cut one tie, and he burned the other, and now there are none left, as was intended. There’s no one left for him to care about. No one left to rescue. 

Except that’s not quite true. There’s one final debt to pay, and then he’ll be free and clear and alone on the path as he should be, as he should want to be. 

He starts south, towards Cintra.


	9. South of Sodden Hill

Geralt finds his child surprise in a forest, his witch on a battlefield, and his bard in a torture chamber. 

It happens like this: 

After Ciri asks him who Yennefer is, Geralt feels the tug in his gut – urgent, this time, and burning. He follows it, bringing Ciri with him, and it takes him to where Yennefer is lying on scorched ground, weak and bloody and magnificent. 

Later that evening – when he’s bandaged her wounds, and she’s lost some of her haunted, faraway expression, and Ciri is fast asleep – they sit side by side by the fire. 

He wants to ask how she’s feeling, but he daren’t get too personal. 

Eventually, she sighs. “For a quiet man, you have very loud thoughts.” 

“Hmmm,” he says, in the hope that it’ll make her smile. It does. “You can hear that I’m sorry, then.” 

“I’m so tired,” she says abruptly. “I feel like I’ve been hollowed out; I’ve never been so exhausted in my life. I don’t have the energy to be angry with you anymore.” 

He lifts an arm and embraces her, tentatively. She relaxes against his side, breathing out a long, low breath. “You can be angry at me later,” he says, kissing her hair, speaking into it. “I deserve it.” 

“You do,” she agrees. “I probably will yell at you at some point. But right now… I see you and the princess and it feels completely right. Maybe that’s destiny and I just don’t have the strength to fight it. Maybe it’s what I want. I guess I’ll figure it out in time.” 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Geralt says, and hopes she can read the honesty in the words. 

“Me too,” Yennefer says. She sounds grudging, but also like it’s true, and that’s good enough for now. 

They go to sleep on the cold ground, wrapped in each other’s arms. And Geralt dreams. 

He’s in a damp, dark space. Sawdust underfoot, water dripping from a broken roof. There’s a thin beam of moonlight coming in from a high window, shining down on someone slumped against a wall. The man’s head is lolling over his chest and his hands are tied to an iron ring on the floor. He’s twitching, unconscious or asleep, but when Geralt steps forward he stirs and lifts his head slowly. 

Geralt sees, with the lack of surprise that comes in dreams, that it’s Jaskier. 

The bard doesn’t look well. One cheek is bruised; his skin is pale and waxy under several days’ worth of stubble; there’s blood on his lips. His clothes are dirty. He’s thinner than Geralt remembers. When his eyes meet Geralt’s his face doesn’t change: it stays blank, hopeless. 

“We should really stop meeting like this,” Jaskier murmurs. He coughs, spitting up a bolus of blood and phlegm. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. He squats close and reaches out a hand but can’t connect. The air between them is slippery. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, startled. “I’m dreaming. Not surprising, that I’d dream of a rescue.” He gives Geralt a bitter grin. “I’d say it’s nice to see you but then again I’m not seeing you, am I.” He turns his head away, blinking tears from his eyes. “Goodbye, Geralt,” he whispers. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to kill me, so I won’t be in your way much longer.” 

And before Geralt can respond, before he can try to touch him again, the image of Jaskier is sliding apart, like a picture being torn into shreds and tossed to the wind. He cries out, wordlessly, and wakes. 

There’s a terrible ache in his stomach, an empty space. He curls up around it and looks up to see Yennefer staring at him.

“What is it?” she asks. “You shouted…” 

It must have been in his head, loud enough to rouse her, because Ciri is sleeping on unruffled. He grunts and spits, tries to clear his head of the fog of the dream. Jaskier’s face, his despairing eyes. The hollow in his gut deepens and pulls at him. 

“I saw Jaskier,” he says. “Captured, hurt... A bad dream, that’s all.” 

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps,” she says, and reaches out a hand thoughtfully, placing her fingertips lightly on his forehead. “Or perhaps it was a vision.”

“What do you mean?” 

She looks at him like he’s the stupidest person she’s ever had the misfortune to meet, which, Geralt reflects, may well be true. “The spell, Geralt, remember? The link between the two of you?” 

There’s a rush of blood to his ears, a rush of white across his eyes, blanking out sight and sound. “But you broke it.” 

“I broke the _spell_ ,” Yennefer says, patiently. “I couldn’t cut the tie you’d forged from it during the months it was on you.” She takes her hand away. “Geralt. Did you really not know?” 

He shakes his head, dumbly. Though he supposes it makes sense. He did find Jaskier in Ghelibol just when he most needed help, after all. And doesn’t he cling, desperately, to the people he finds himself loving, hard enough to twist fate? “Can you see him?” he asks. 

“Not exactly,” Yennefer says. “But I can feel the bond, and it’s angry. Like a thrashing under your skin. He could be in trouble, he’s irritating enough. And I suppose there are a lot of people looking for you right now who might find him useful.” 

Geralt looks at Ciri, sleeping so deeply that it must be the first time in days she’s got some proper rest. He wishes he could let her be, but the world’s not that kind. “Can you use the bond to find him?” he asks Yennefer. 

For a moment, he can see her instinct to say no, not out of jealousy or cruelty but simply because Yennefer of Vengerberg refuses to let anything come easy. But the moment passes, leaving her looking tired, a little more human. “I think so,” she says. 

The portal Yennefer conjures spits them out some miles south; Sodden Hill and its cliffs rise in the distance. The air is full of the sounds of wounded men. From their vantage point in the woods, all that can be seen is smoke rising from the fires, and the roof of a barn or a farmhouse that the soldiers have co-opted. 

Ciri is clinging to Yennefer, afraid but trying not to show it. 

“Stay here,” Geralt says. “I won’t be long.” He should reconnoitre, really, or hold off till it goes dark, but he keeps picturing the defeat in Jaskier’s eyes. _I’m pretty sure they’re going to kill me_. He can’t wait a second longer. 

Geralt crouches to look at Ciri, touching her hesitantly on the shoulder. “I’m coming back,” he promises. When he stands, Yennefer nods at him, her jaw tight, and he knows that she will protect Ciri if he doesn’t return. He turns and creeps into the trees. 

It’s been raining, and water drips at him from the branches as he passes. He treads silently, though the men crying out from the camp ahead of him masks his steps. When he reaches the edge of the woods he stills. The soldiers have set up around what was once a fine dwelling, now half in ruins. Tents fall away down the fields, with fires dotted here and there. The grass has been churned to mud, tinged red with blood. He can’t see any guards. Perhaps this was a disciplined encampment once but the failure at Sodden Hill has killed morale. Men lie unspeaking, or wander dazed; only the healers he can see in the larger tents seem focussed on their work. 

All the better for him. He looks around. The only building standing is what must once have been the stables, with stone walls and a broken roof. If Jaskier’s still alive, he’s in there. 

The entrance faces away from the camp, which may be on purpose. If it’s a prison, or a torture site, they might not want the ordinary soldiers to know. Geralt approaches it from the woods. Here, at least, there are guards, but they stand leaning against the walls, uncaring or complacent, and when they do see him it’s already far too late. He dispatches them with two thrusts of his swords and is inside by the time they hit the ground. 

It’s dark, and he waits a moment to catch his breath and let his eyes adjust. The stable is divided into stalls, now fitted with doors from floor to ceiling – the wood and locks are new. But all of them are empty, save the one at the far end; the only heartbeats he can hear come from there. Two regular, one panicked and fast and familiar to him as his own breath. 

He runs. Kicks down the door. Bursts through, to see Jaskier thrust up against a wall, one man holding him still with a club across his chest while another pours something down his throat.

Geralt’s blood runs cold. The jailers startle and step back. Jaskier falls, coughs, and says, “wow, that shit is truly disgusting, did you put actual shit in it?” 

One of the men is in armour. He charges Geralt, swinging his club, but his movements are desperate and unwieldy and it only takes a swing of his sword to deflect the blow and slice him open gut to gullet. The other man, dressed in the long tunic of a healer, looks like he wants to run but the only way is past Geralt and so he stays frozen in place. 

On the floor, Jaskier says, “if I’m dreaming again I’m going to be so annoyed. The most annoyed I have ever been. More annoyed than when those twins turned me down in Cidaris, do you remember that Geralt? They had such amazing golden hair…” 

He can’t be that hurt if he’s talking that much, so Geralt steps past him, sheathing his sword and reaching for a dagger. The healer is backed up against a wall, swallowing, too frightened even to shout. Geralt pushes him further into the wood and presses his blade against the man’s throat. “What did you give him?” he asks. 

The healer swallows, his Adam’s apple scraping against the dagger. “T-truth potion,” he stutters. 

“Truth potion?” Geralt asks, surprised. It seems more sophisticated than the usual torture. 

“He wouldn’t talk. Said he didn’t know where you were. So we thought we’d make him tell us where to find you…” 

Geralt bares his teeth. “Congratulations,” he says. “It worked.” Then he slits the man’s throat and turns back to where Jaskier lies sprawled on the ground. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, blinking up at him. He doesn’t look much worse than in Geralt’s vision, though the bruise on his cheek has darkened into purple. “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt. It’s a good name, I like it. Lots of different parts. Hard G at the back of your mouth, then your tongue has to do a kind of dance over the R and the L and then up to the teeth for the T. Very elegant. You should be proud of it. Mine’s mostly all vowels. Yooo-lien. Yaaaa-skier.” 

His eyes are unfocused, his face flushed. His hands are tied, and his fingers clutch and fidget. Geralt says, “can you walk?” 

Jaskier moves his feet a little. “I feel like the answer ought to be yes and yet is definitely no,” he says, confusedly. “What are you doing here anyway? I mean not that I’m not glad to see you. Although maybe I’m not glad to see you! I’m mad at you. You’re such a dick. Geralt of Rivia the White Dick. Actually you do have a white dick, I should know, shouldn’t I.” 

Geralt looks down at him. They need to get out of here, quietly. He’s starting to realise that this may be a problem. He kneels down and slits the ropes binding Jaskier’s hands and feet, and the bard throws his arms around him, sounding out the alphabet as he does so. “Can you shut up for five minutes?” he asks. 

“Outrageous!” Jaskier tells him, pushing him away and collapsing back to the floor. “I haven’t seen you for months and the first thing you want me to do is shut up? I mean I can’t say I’m surprised but I’ve had a lot to contend with the past few days and if I want to vent I want to vent, and I do want to vent, Geralt, because you – you, sir, are a dick.” 

“You said,” Geralt sighs. “Can you try?”

Jaskier does try. He presses his lips together, going cross-eyed with the effort of it, and then clutches his stomach with a pained cry and pukes blood onto the floor. “Geralt,” he whimpers, “ah _fuck_ that hurts.” 

“That’s a no, then,” Geralt says, ignoring the stream of words that continue to pour from Jaskier’s lips. They’ll have to do this the hard way. He bends down to scoop the bard into his arms, pressing one hand firmly against the bard’s mouth. He’s still talking, his lips still moving, his tongue flicking against the leather of Geralt’s glove, but the sound is muffled at least. It’s as good as they’re going to get. 

He’s just debating the odds of carrying a loud-mouthed prisoner out of the camp without detection when a portal opens up in front of him and Yennefer leans out of it. “We got bored,” she says as Geralt glares at her, incredulous. “Are you coming?” 

Geralt carries Jaskier through the portal, and then through another one, and then another, before Yennefer’s magic runs out. She falls to her knees like a string’s been cut, but she’s found a good place to bring them to. They’re by the banks of a rushing stream close to a village where Geralt remembers meeting her once, somewhere north of Ard Carraigh. _Of course_ , he thinks. She was trying to get him home. 

Ciri clings to Yennefer, who’s swaying, a thin line of blood falling from her nose. Geralt deposits Jaskier on the ground, and Jaskier says, “well isn’t this cosy, you’ve got a witch and a princess, it’s properly like a fairy tale. If I still had my lute I’d compose a ballad, the likes of which the world has never seen!” He hums, briefly, but that doesn’t seem to satisfy the potion because he bends over double again, whimpering, and then resumes speaking, something about a ball he was at once. 

The princess meets Geralt’s eyes. There’s a glimmer of a smile on her face, the first he’s ever seen from her. “Does he always talk this much?”

“Not quite this much,” Geralt says, smiling back. “But usually a lot.” 

“I resent you talking about me like I’m not here,” Jaskier complains. He tips over to lie on his back, looking up at the sky. “I’m here. I think I’m here. I’m not entirely sure, to be honest, because I don’t really know what’s happening but I think I’ve just been rescued again and I don’t know what changed your mind, Geralt, but I humbly thank you, because I don’t think I was going to get out of that one on good looks and charm alone.” 

Yennefer uses Ciri as a crutch to stand up. She says, “truth potion?”

“Hmmm,” Geralt confirms. “Can you do anything?”

“It’ll just have to burn itself out,” she says. “It usually only takes a couple of hours or so. I’m going to wash, because if I have to listen I’ll probably rip out his larynx. D’you want to come with me, Ciri?” 

“Sure,” the princess says, tearing her eyes away from Jaskier, who has started reciting poetry that she definitely shouldn’t be listening to. She follows Yennefer down to the creek, and Geralt walks the edge of the clearing, gathering fistfuls of twigs and branches to start a fire. Jaskier lies on his back and talks, randomly, flitting from one subject to another; Geralt catches every third word. 

When the fire is blazing, Geralt shifts Jaskier closer to it, sitting with Jaskier’s head in his lap. He strokes his hand through greasy brown hair and Jaskier says, “you were right, though, I couldn’t look after myself for one damn minute. And here we are, again. I missed you, again. I’ll get out of your way, though, the minute I feel better, I promise. I know I owe you more than I can ever repay and I don’t know why you came for me because it’s not like I could have told them anything anyway so you were quite safe, you and the princess, you could have gone on quite happily without me.” 

“Shut up, Jaskier,” Geralt says. 

“I promise you I would if I could,” Jaskier says, “I mean the minute I think of a thing it’s out of my mouth and even for someone as loquacious as I am it’s not that much fun to have all your fears and secrets and insecurities ready for the asking, like now I’m wondering how often you’ve fucked the witch since you two made up and how long it took you to go after her instead of me and whether you ever liked me at all or were just pretending for some weirdly noble reason I don’t understand and if the whole foundation of my life, the life I wanted, was always just bullshit and I didn’t even notice and please, Geralt, please stop me, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

He’s crying, words streaming out around choked off sobs, hoarse and pained after an hour of non-stop talking. Geralt presses a gloved hand back over his mouth and lets him make incomprehensible noises into the leather. 

“I’m sorry,” he says over the babble of Jaskier murmuring into his palm. “I thought it was for the best, sending you away. I thought I would just hurt you. I thought you’d be safer without me.” 

The outrage and volume of the gibberish increases sharply. Geralt brings his other hand up to pet through Jaskier’s hair, and goes on, “I know it was stupid, you don’t need to tell me.” Jaskier makes a satisfied noise and stretches a hand up to cup Geralt’s chin, stroking at his cheek. There’s a weal around his wrist from the rope, and Geralt says, “and instead I just got you hurt again like I always do. Fuck, Jaskier. You don’t have your lute, you don’t have any clothes, even. Seems like whether I’m near you or far away I’m still a blight on your life…” 

Jaskier bites his palm and when Geralt startles and moves his hand he bursts out, “oh no, no, you’re not doing this to me again, you stupid self-sacrificing idiot. I’m well capable of getting myself hurt without you and all this means is that I’m better off with you than apart, at least that way we can keep an eye on each other. And anyway it’s worth it, it’s all been worth it, the pain and what I’ve lost, everything, I don’t care, it’s worth it as long as I have you, Geralt, you have never been a curse to me, you’ve always been a blessing, and I know you don’t understand it but that’s because I never told you—”

He breaks off, looking startled. Geralt says, “told me what?”

“Huh,” Jaskier says. “I think the potion’s worn off.” He wriggles around so he’s sitting up opposite Geralt, bruised face and split lip unable to hide the sincere joy he seems to feel, looking at him. 

“Told me what?” Geralt asks again. 

“Oh. That I love you, of course.” He smiles, a little shy, a lot mischievous. “Have done since the day you let me follow you in Brugge.” 

Geralt stares at him. 

“This is the part where you say it back,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt stares at him some more. Then he says, “yes. I mean. I do.” 

“I know,” Jaskier tells him patiently. “Why else would you keep rescuing me all the damn time?” He leans forward as if to kiss him, but halfway across the space between them he suddenly goes white, his eyes roll backwards, and he collapses onto Geralt’s chest. 

They’re still like that when Yennefer and Ciri return, damp and chill. Geralt has his arms round Jaskier, who’s snoring and drooling into his shirt. 

“Potion wore off then,” Yennefer says. “There’s always a bit of a crash.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says. He rolls Jaskier off him so he can sleep properly. Yennefer comes to sit on his left side, and Ciri sneaks up to his right – she’s still not talking, much, but she seems comfortable to be near him – and he feels them press against him, warm and close.

It’s a long road to safety, and no telling how many twists the path has in store, but he has the three of them with him. And that’s enough for now.


	10. Kaer Morhen

Kaer Morhen is always cold in winter, no matter how many fires they light. Yennefer helps, setting spells in the rooms they sleep in, but even then wind whistles through the gaps in the windows and sneaks under the covers at night. 

In the mornings, Geralt gets up first to relight the banked fires, break the ice on the water bowls, and then retreat back into bed. Some nights he spends alone, some lying on the floor of Ciri’s room when she has nightmares, some nights in either Yennefer’s or Jaskier’s bed. 

This morning he’s with Jaskier. He untangles himself reluctantly so he can piss and start the fire going. The lump that is Jaskier shifts unhappily. 

“I’m freezing, Geralt.” The plaintive moan is only partially muffled by the furs. “I’m going to freeze to death. It’s a tragedy. Come warm me up.” 

Geralt grins and slides back into the bed, sticking his cold feet onto Jaskier’s to make him shriek. Then he manouevres them both so he’s lying on top of the bard, furs a nest around them. 

“That’s better,” Jaskier murmurs into his shoulder. “Hypothermia averted. A grateful nation roars its thanks.” 

As the heat settles into their skin, Geralt feels Jaskier’s dick twitch against his thigh. “Is that the grateful nation?” he asks. 

“Could be,” Jaskier grins. His face is in shadow, under their covers; it’s hard to tell what’s the light and what the lingering remnants of his ill-treatment. Geralt kisses his cheek, the hollows under his eyes, licks into his mouth, and Jaskier relaxes, shuddering under his weight. “A grateful nation liberated by the mighty witcher,” he says. “Come storm my citadels.” 

“Idiot,” Geralt scoffs, affectionately, biting at his neck. Jaskier blinks up at him. 

“Fancy language not doing it for you? Geralt, if you’d be so kind, please fuck me. Fuck me till I’m begging you to stop. Fuck me till I forget my own name. Fuck me till I can’t speak.” 

Geralt’s dick starts to fill. “That’ll never happen,” he says. 

“Probably not,” Jaskier agrees, “but, ah – ” he arches up into Geralt, rubbing against him – “you could give it a try.” 

“Hmmm,” Geralt says, and flips Jaskier over; he likes a bit of manhandling. The covers pool around his back, but he’s warm enough like this, pressed skin to skin. He reaches for the vial of oil on the floor by the bed, and gets to work opening Jaskier up, taking his time. Geralt’s a patient man, no matter how much Jaskier squirms and beg beneath him; he enjoys the feel of Jaskier clenching around his fingers, babbling and shifting, desperate for more; his cock trapped under his own body, unable to get any relief. 

When he finally starts to push in, carefully and gently, Jaskier’s mostly incoherent, but still talking, little sounds of appreciation, pleas, Geralt’s name said over and over like a prayer.

Geralt knows Jaskier’s body so well, as Jaskier knows his. Can map his scars, the curve of his back, knows all the places he likes to be touched and how. He has done so many things with, to, because of this man. And yet this is probably his favourite, the sleepy slow connection of an early morning, his hips rocking back and forth in such small increments, building ever so slowly to a crescendo, like one of Jaskier’s ballads, while the bard sings in harmony beneath him. 

At lunch two days later, Geralt arrives in the kitchen to see Yennefer sipping wine and chatting quietly with Vesemir; Eskel prodding at a tureen of stew on the hob; and Ciri tickling Jaskier half to death on the hearth. 

She’s come into her own, in the last few weeks. Yennefer teaches her magic, and the witchers teach her how to defend herself, and Jaskier teaches her that she’s still a child. Possibly too well, given the yelps Jaskier’s making as he tries to escape. 

“Geralt,” he cries out when Geralt looms above them both, one eye raised. “A fiend, a fiend has got me! Save me!” 

Ciri’s edging on the kind of hysteria that can end in tears, so Geralt wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her away, ignoring her struggles and kicks. He deposits her next to Yennefer, who has a sobering effect on anyone, and goes back to pull Jaskier up from where he’s still sprawled breathless on the floor. 

“Thank you!” he says, as Geralt gets him on his feet. He bats his eyelashes. “My hero…” 

Ciri giggles, Yennefer rolls her eyes, and Geralt feels warmth sink into his gut. 

One night, Geralt goes up to one of the highest towers with a flagon of White Gull. He pours himself a shot, and then one on the ground for Mousesack, who died protecting Ciri. He hopes that, if Mousesack’s anywhere, he can feel his gratitude. 

“I’m well practised at being needed, old friend,” he tells the stars. Yennefer needs his tenderness; Ciri his protection; Jaskier needs to know he won’t be abandoned. And in return Geralt needs their trust, their faith, their love. For all he ran from destiny, he knows that he’s found himself in exactly the right place, with the right people. 

He tries to explain it to Jaskier, when they’re lying in each other’s arms, half asleep. That he might have rescued Jaskier physically, more times than he can remember, but it doesn’t count half as much as the ways Jaskier and the others have rescued him. 

“I love you,” Jaskier says when Geralt’s stumbled to the end of his explanation, “but you are very stupid sometimes.” He pulls Geralt closer to him, tracing a line up and down his back. “Life’s not a series of debts and favours, though I can see why a witcher might think so, since he spends all his time trading blood for coin. I don’t count how many times you’ve saved me or I’ve saved you; there’s no point in reckoning it. Needing, being needed, it’s all just freely given and received. Because we love you and you love us.” 

It seems too simple. But here, safe in bed, safe in the castle where he grew up, safe in the knowledge that his family are just a few doors away, he finds himself starting to believe it.


End file.
